


Cult Classic

by Colette_Capricious



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, First Time, M/M, Multi, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 12:01:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1687583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Colette_Capricious/pseuds/Colette_Capricious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The summer after Sam graduates is a time of ending and beginnings. Dealing with the ghost is easy. Figuring out how to deal with the future Dean can feel barreling towards them is a whole other story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is fic is completed now. A Dirty Dancing inspired story. All because I wanted to make Sam say "I carried a watermelon," and Dean to say "No one puts Sammy in a corner." I didn't manage the latter. I'm sorry.

Tiny wavelets slaps against the side of the wooden dock and break up the moonlight into a corsucating blanket of brilliance. The dock dips down sharply as a laughing young girl, dark hair wet and sleek as seal’s fur down her back, hauls herself out of the water. 

“Yes!” she pants, slapping her hand down on the wood. “Lo-o-ser,” she sing-songs, looking over at the young man climbing up the ladder from the water. Laughing, she leans back on her elbows, legs stretched out in front of and watches the boy pull himself over the top.

“You cheated,” he says, laughing breathlessly. He crawls over to her on his hands and knees, moving up and over her as she rolls down onto the cold wood. Water drips from his hair down onto her face.

“Yeah?” she asks, smirking up at him. “Did my ass distract you? Did you blow out a water wing?” 

She reaches for his shoulder, but he pulls away, sitting back on his heels, straddling but not touching her. “Damn right that ass is distracting.” He slaps an open palm against the softest part of her hip. The smack echoes across the lake and she squeals in mock outrage. Smiling, he reaches down, hands spread over her ribs. He leans forward, inner thighs sliding down her legs until they are almost nose to nose. Her breath catches on an inhale, and her eyes close. His mouth opens slightly. “Cheater,” he whispers as his fingers dig deep into her ribs.

Her shriek is sharp as she twists under him. “You idiot!” she yells, laughing and wriggling as he finds every ticklish spot he can reach.

“That’s what cheaters get,” he says, grinning ear to ear.

The dock rocks wildly, waves slapping loudly against its sides, and the chain holding it in place clanks in rhythm with her laughing shrieks. 

She manages to twist onto her stomach, and she wraps her hand over the side of the dock to get a better grip. She surges onto her hands and knees and it’s his turn to yell as he starts to slide off of her. An icy blast of air slashes across her skin and her lungs seize up as a pale, waterlogged, _impossible_ , arms reach up from the water and yank the boy over the side. Trembling, eyes wide, she watches in shock, mouth open and closing, as he is pulled, shrieking and fighting, under the dark water. 

It isn’t until the air bubbles stop rising to the surface that she starts screaming. She’s not sure she’ll ever be able to stop.

 

*******

It’s almost nine pm by the time Dean pulls the Impala into the staff parking lot of Camp Nevele. Her headlights sweep across the half-dozen small cabins squeezed between the open space and the dark woods. The lot is empty except for a mid-80s Sentra and a ten-year old white Bronco that would do O.J. proud. After Dean kills the engine, the only sounds are the sharp ticks of cooling metal and the whooshing of wind through the trees. Sam listens as the breeze caresses his face. It sounds almost exactly like the ocean and he half-expects the briny smell of salt water instead of the sharp scent of pine. 

Dean steps out of the car with a groan, stretching first one and then the other arm up over his head. Sam sees a strip of white skin where his t-shirt pulls up. Most of the cabins are dark, and Sam hesitates before opening his own door. By the time he rounds the back of the car, Dean’s already pulled his duffle bag out of the trunk.

“Sam,” Dean calls, tossing Sam’s bag at him. 

Sam grunts softly as he catches it almost absentmindedly. He could have sworn he saw something, someone, slipping between the trees, going into the woods, away from the cabins. 

“What?” Dean asks, quinting in the direction of Sam’s eyeline.

“Did you see that?”

Dean shakes his head. 

Sam shrugs and shoulders his bag as Dean shuts the trunk. “I thought I saw somebody back there.”

Dean rests the weapons bag on the trunk. “Worth checking out?”

Sam hesitates. He’s not 100% sure he saw anything. He looks again, listens closely. Nothing. Well, nothing concrete. But he gets a really strong feeling that going into those woods tonight would be a bad idea. “I...No. I think, let’s just get in the cabin. You got the key?”

Dean holds up his hand. Two small metal keys dangle from a chain. 

It’s almost disturbingly quiet as they walk the few feet to cabin number six. Sam stands with his back to Dean’s as Dean unlocks the padlock. His eyes scan the parking lot, the woods, and the other cabins. Despite the few cars in the parking lot, the other cabins look empty. Sam supposes they could just be asleep. Work at the camp starts early. Staff breakfast is at 7am sharp.

“Sammy?” Dean asks, turning and looking over Sam’s shoulder. Sam can feel Dean’s breath on his neck. They’re just about the same height now. “Anything?”

Sam shakes his head, but takes a step backwards into the security of Dean’s space. Dean puts a hand on his shoulder. “Bad feeling? Extra salty tonight?”

That’s one of the things Sam loves about Dean. He doesn’t blow off Sam’s intuition, the feelings he gets about things sometimes. He never did, even before that time in Savannah. Then, it had been just them. Dad off on a hunt somewhere, and Sam refused to stay in the motel one more night. Dean had grumbled, but packed them up anyway, texted dad, and drove them to the next fabulous motel down the highway. That night, the guy in room eleven hacked up his wife and kids and burned the other motel to the ground.

Even Dad takes Sam’s gut feelings a little more seriously since then.

“Can’t hurt,” Sam says.

Dean flicks the light switch. There’s a click and a hum, and two bare bulbs illuminate the small room. “Oh cool,” Dean says, “Bunk beds. Top or bottom, Sammy?”

Sam looks over Dean’s shoulder. “There’s two, doofus.”

“Awesome.” Dean walks over and tosses his duffle on the set of beds against the right side of the cabin. He pulls the salt out of his bag and starts on the window between the beds. 

There isn’t too much to salt. One small window in the bathroom. One window next to the door and the one between the beds. Still, Sam takes care to fill all the spaces. The night presses hard against the window and Sam draws the thin, all-but-useless curtain against his own reflection.

Dean sit on the bottom bunk and pulls off his heavy shoes. “You gonna sit down at some point?” he asks.

Sam drops down on the bed opposite and winces as he smacks the back of his head on the upper bunk. Dean laughs. “Don’t laugh just because some of us don’t fit into small spaces as easily as others,” Sam retorts. Dean throws a shoe at him with a grin that makes Sam’s stomach do a little flip. Damn it. Sam catches the shoe and flings it back.

“Mr. Weisman said he’ll introduce us after breakfast,” Dean says, catching the shoe easily and continuing a conversation they’d been having in the car. “Then he’ll tell us where we can work. The way staff has been quitting, I don’t think it’s gonna be a problem getting us in.” He takes Sam’s grunt as agreement. “So what are feeling about this place, Miss Cleo?”

“You know I’m not a psychic, right?” Sam rubs his palms on his thighs. It seems important that Dean says yes for some reason.

Dean rolls his eyes. It might be a trick of the low-light, but Sam thinks he sees Dean’s glance flick quickly to the window and back to Sam. “Yeah, no. I know. But you’ve got good instincts. For a kid. So tell.”

Sam makes a face at the ‘kid’ and resists another short joke. Dean will never see him as a grown up. But you have to pick your battles and now isn’t the time. “Nothing concrete,” he admits. “Just, something isn’t right. This place has weird vibes for sure.”

Dean snorts and mouth _vibes_. He holds up a hand to forestall Sam’s complaints. “Yeah, I believe you. I guess two drownings in a month will do that.”

Sam nods. 

“Mr. Weisman said we’d have full access to whatever we need starting in the morning.” Dean unbuttons his jeans and wiggles them off without getting off the bed. He pulls the t-shirt over his head and throws it on the floor. “I’m beat. Set the alarm?” He shoves the duffle off the bed and wrangles the blankets until he can get underneath. “And shut the lights.” He rolls over, facing the wall. “Night, Sammy.”

“Night, Dean,” Sam echoes. He watches Dean breathe for a second, his freckled back moving up and down. It’s stuffy and warm in the room but neither of them wants to open the windows. Way too windy, the salt would blow far away.

Sam gets up, uses the bathroom, shuts the lights off, and strips down to his boxers in the dark. Dean’s asleep before Sam lays down, but Sam stares at the bottom of the upper bunk for a long time before falling asleep.

 

The early morning staff meeting is larger than Dean had expected. The whole camp is bigger than Dean had expected. It’s a family camp, mom, dads, and kids all together. Looks like something out of a movie. He hadn’t really gotten a good look at it last night. Dad had vouched for Weisman and then gone off on some wild chase or another. He didn’t give details and Dean had learned long ago not to ask. If only he could get Sam to learn that. The kid had alternated between bitching and moping the whole way from Louisiana to Sullivan County, New York. Fourteen hundred miles and eight states of Sam-angst. Only Sammy would be grumpy about graduating high school. And after Dean had even gotten him drunk and taken him to a high-end strip club in Baton Rouge for a graduation present. Ingrate.

Whatever. They’d get this job wrapped up quick, and then Weisman had said they could stay on the rest of the summer. Get some real money, take a break from hunting for a bit. Maybe Dad would come back the last week or so and they could have a family break before hitting the road again. 

Dean jumps as Sam gives him an elbow to the ribs. He looks up with his best paying attention expression to where Weisman is staring at him expectantly. 

“That sound good, Dean?” the man asks. The look on his face makes it clear he knows Dean hadn’t heard a word he’d just said.

He sneaks a look at Sam, no help there. Sam’s got a professional-level poker face. One day they’re going to have to cash in on that. Oh well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. “Yeah, sure. Of course.”

Sam snorts and Weisman looks like the cat that swallowed the canary. “Excellent. The first few lessons are group lesson, so we’ll start you out easy. Eleven o’clock in the ballroom.”

The rest of the details get sorted out, staff is shifted around to fill in the gaps the rash of quitting has left, and they’re dismissed. Dean grabs Sam’s arm as he pushes away from the wall. Sam is biting his lower lip, holding back a laugh. His eyes are sparkling. Whatever Dean’s just agreed to, it’s worth it to see Sam happy, even if it is at his expense.

“Okay, what did I get myself into now?” He swings his arm around Sam’s neck, pulling him down to rub at his hair. 

Sam laughs as twists his way out in a heartbeat. “You’re gonna be giving dance lessons.” He smoothes his hair down as much as he can. Sam’s hair isn’t much for smooth. 

Dean combs it back for him, letting the strands run like silk through his fingers. Sam’s neck is warm where Dean’s fingers cup around it. He shakes his brother’s head back and forth gently. “Yeah? I can do that. Taught you, didn’t I? I seem to remember you got really good at it.”

Sam eyes widen slightly and he blushes.

 _Oh yeah._ They don’t really talk about that, do they? Repress and deny, the Wincest motto. It’s a good one, Dean can work with that. He allows himself a brief moment to remember the feel of Sam’s body against his. Allows himself an even briefer moment to remember the feel of Sam hard against his thigh and his hands on Sam’s ass that one confusing, glorious, minute until Sam ran from the room. That was the last of the lessons. 

Dean can’t help wondering how different it would be now, now that Sam’s an inch taller than he is. The heat of Sam’s skin reminds him that he still has his hand on Sam’s neck. He pulls it away but Sam doesn’t move. Just looks down at Dean like he can’t remember what he was going to say. 

Dean clears his throat. “So, um, what are you going to be doing while I’m cha-chaing around the place?”

“Lifeguard,” Sam answers. 

The image of Sam in a red Speedo flash in Dean’s mind. He licks his lips. “Good,” Dean nods. “Good.”

Sam starts walking, grabs a donut off the table as they leave. “Yeah, I mean, drownings. A good idea that one of us is at the lake.”

Dean puts a hand on Sam’s arm. “Hey, be careful out there, okay?”

Sam nods. “Yeah, I will. Probably nothing is going to happen during the day.” He shoves the rest of the donut into his mouth. “You be careful , too, okay? Check back in at lunch?”

“You got it.”

 

The lunch bell rang ten minutes ago and Dean is still waiting for Sam at the bottom of the path up to the cafeteria. Most of the staff that’s not on lunch has already piled in and Dean’s getting a bit worried that the food is running low. Sam eats amounts of food that still astound Dean even after watching him do it for years. Another few minutes pass and and he’s getting a little worried. After all, something around the lake is killing people. _Screw that._ Dean takes off down the path.

 

The lake is pretty, surrounded by hardwood trees, in a low valley between the hills. A red lifeguard stand sits on the white sand beach and a line of buoys marks off the safe swimming area. A line of teenaged girls marks off the area around Sam.

Being a good eight inches taller than his fan club, Sam sees Dean coming over the crowd and looks to him for rescue. Dean’s smile at Sam’s predicament is golden. He’s wearing a tight red bathing suit and a sweatshirt with a white cross on the back. The girls seem to be anywhere from twelve to almost Sam’s age. The younger girls in one-piece suits huddle together, giggling amongst themselves. 

Sam’s felt more safe facing off a pack of chupacabras. Judging by the barely contained laughter he can see in his brother’s expression, Dean finds the whole situation hilarious. 

Dean is, in fact, not helping things in the least. He’s wearing the high-waisted tight black pants that the dance instructor position requires but he’s taken off the white dress shirt. The white sleeveless undershirt clings to his chest and freckles dust the swells of muscles in his arms. He looks like sex on legs even more than usual, the tight pants not leaving much more to the imagination than Sam’s speedo. The black material emphasises the curve of his ass and the bow of his legs as he saunters through the crowd like Frank Sinatra after a show. Some of the moms recognize Dean and turn to switch their attention to him. He smiles quickly at them, greets a few by name, but Sam can tell it’s his fake charm every time Dean looks up to meet Sam’s gaze again.

Sam fumbles his way through some awkward conversation with a truly stunning blonde girl with a huge rack and a tiny bikini. Between Dean’s smile and her cleavage Sam can’t find anywhere safe to look and can barely think. The other girls have stepped back a bit, acknowledging her status as alpha female of the moment.

Then Dean’s up next to him. He thinks he feels Dean’s fingers slide around his waist under the sweatshirt and then squeeze briefly over his hip, but that can’t be right. And then Dean is pressed up against Sam’s back, chin hooked over Sam’s shoulder.

“I gotta borrow your boy here, ma’am.” Dean tells the blonde, looking over Sam’s shoulder with a grin. He claps both hands on Sam’s shoulders hard and Sam flinches. She pouts in mock disappointment and Sam thinks her lips are almost as pretty as Dean’s. 

“Aw, can we have him back later?” She looks at Sam with a smirk and a quick up and down. Sam’s seen that look, right before something tried to eat him alive. 

“Maybe,” Dean answers. His hands slide maybe half an inch down Sam’s shoulders, with a hint of possessiveness. The blond’s smile falters just the slightest, then she lifts her long hair off the back of her neck with a sigh. Dean and Sam both take in the perfect roundness of the top of her breasts. 

She sighs. “Well, you know where to find me,” she throws over her shoulder as she turns to walk away. She looks pretty good walking away too. The rest of the crowd disperses silently in appreciation of the move. No one wants to spoil a good exit.

Dean’s arm slides up and around until he has Sam in a headlock and is tugging him away from the lake. “Man, you’re like Justin Timberlake in there, Sammy, boy. Though I was going to have to lay one on you to get them to leave you alone.”

Sam’s stomach clenches at the image. He twist his head to try and see Dean’s expression, but Dean is looking determinedly away, arm still locked around Sam’s neck.

 

The staff cafeteria is off to one side of the commercial kitchen. Like everything else at the camp, It’s only about half full, as if it were built for a much bigger crowd. Once the press had gotten wind of the, not one, but two, deaths, the cancellations had started coming in. Some families already here had packed up and left, dragging their traumatized kids after them.

Sam can’t blame them. The whole place is just creepy. Weisman had revamped the old cabins and main house, vacant since the late eighties, but still. Everything feels old and sad somehow. Sam can’t put a finger on it, but sad was the best description. Not angry, nothing threatening, just a silent, creeping despair. 

Dean nudges him with an elbow and they carry their trays to a table where the other dance instructors sit. There’s a friendly-looking older guy in his early forties, a dark-skinned guy Sam pegged as somewhere in his late twenties, early thirties, and a beautiful, voluptuous woman with black hair curling down her shoulders. She is wearing some kind of sparkly dress cut so tight and low that Sam can’t tear his eyes away from the creamy curve of her breasts. He stands there, frozen, as Dean steps his legs over the bench to sit across from her.

“Hey, Sharon,” Dean says, settling in. He smacks Sam on the thigh, making him jump. His face flushes red as he realizes where he’d been staring. “Sit,” Dean orders.

Sam sits.

Dean points at the guys across the table. “Frankie, Dallas, this is my little brother, Sam. Sam, this is Frankie, teaches ballroom, Dallas, hip hop and Latin.”

The guys nods hello.

Sharon smirks as Dean smiles at her, and Dean’s hand lands heavy between Sam’s shoulder blades. “And you’re already met Sharon and her boobs.”

Sam prays that the floor will open up and swallow him; or Dean. Either way is fine with him. Sadly he knows from long acquaintance with Dean and mortification that neither will happen. 

“You’ll have to forgive him,” Dean is saying, “He was raised by wolves.”

Sam lifts his glass of soda to his mouth to cover his awkwardness. “Raised by you, idiot,” he says into it.

Dean leans into his side just a bit, hand rubbing gently on his back. “Damn straight,” he says in a low voice. “And don’t you forget it.”

Sam isn’t sure why those words sound so possessive to him; why they make goosebumps break out on his arms and legs. Between Dean’s hand, his words, and Sharon breasts, Sam can hardly figure out what to focus on, and he’s wishing he had put his sweatpants on over his bathing suit.

“So. Frankie here,” Dean points with his fork, mouth full of sloppy joe. “He was at the camp twenty years ago when it was open. Says this isn’t first time there’s been drownings.”

Trust Dean to jump right in. Sam is impressed. Something about Dean just makes certain people bond with him, they tell him all kinds of things. The ones who are put off by his knowing smirk and his unsettling combination of almost unreal prettiness and gruff blue-collar manner, usually respond to the shaggy-haired awkward innocence of his little brother. Sam knows it’s part of what make’s them so good at what they do. That, and being trained how to kill all kinds of creatures almost since birth. Sam prefers the talking to the killing.

Frankie leans forward. His grey hair and pale blue eyes give him a distinguished air and Sam wonders what he’s doing out here in the middle of nowhere teaching bored housewives for chump change. “Yeah, everyone knew the place was haunted back then.” He’s got a strong New York accent. Sam likes the way he sounds. “Me and the guys used to take chicks down to the lake, have a campfire, get them all scared, y’know?”

Sharon rolls her eyes.

Sam’s looks at Dean. “So were there any stories, any legends, about the place? About the ghosts?”

Frankie shrugs, takes a bite of his hamburger. “All I ever heard they were sisters. Someone killed them, or they killed each other. Don’t know.”

“So, Sam,” Sharon says, leaning forward. Sam can’t stop his eyes from darting downward. Sharon just smiles and squeezes her ample chest between her arms as she props her elbows on the table. “How old are you?”

“Eighteen,” he answers. 

“Oh, nice. Are you in college yet?”

Dean stares deliberately at his plate. And _Wow_ , they’re two for two on the ‘things we don’t talk about’ list. “No,” Sam says. “No. Just graduated high school.”

“Should of been valedictorian,” Dean mutters without looking up. “Smartest kid in the school.”

It makes Sam feel all warm and fuzzy inside that the slight still upsets Dean. He was more pissed about it than Sam was. He’d only been at that school for 3 months, and he had his Stanford acceptance already. What did he care about some crappy high school honor? 

“Cute and smart,” Sharon remarks. “Going in the fall?”

Sam can feel Dean vibrating next to him. He can’t handle this, does not want to bring this up right now. Or ever. Thinking about that thick white envelope Pastor Jim is holding for him makes Sam want to throw up. He’s going to have to deal with it, he knows, but right now, he’d rather face a pair of murdering ghosts.

“No,” Dean says, forcing a small smile. “We’re not really the college type of family. More the family business kind.”

Frankie nods. “I get that. I took over my mom’s dance studio. Up here trying to drum up some business.”

Well that explains that, Sam thinks. He really needs to change the topic. “So, um, Dallas,” he asks. “What do you think about the camp?”

The young man shrugs. He’s got a gorgeous smile and Sam likes the way his hair is cut almost down the the skin, curving around his skull. He has nice arms and Sam spends a moment wondering what his ass looks like. _Goddamn it_ , Sam’s hormones are working overtime out here. It’s like he’s fourteen again and he couldn’t look at, well, anyone, without getting hard. Must be all the fresh air. Or the bikinis. Or they way Dean’s always touching him. 

“It’s not bad,” Dallas is saying. “The kids are cute and they listen pretty good.”

“The moms ain’t all that bad either,” Frankie snorts and they share a fist bump. “Your boy here is fresh meat,” Frankie adds, tilting his chin at Dean. “He’s at the golden age where he’s got the mommas _and_ the daughters thinking of signing up for some private lessons.” He shakes his head. “Enjoy it while it lasts, kid. Time’s a bitch.”

Sam smiles at Dean being called kid for once. “How’s the teaching going, Dean?” He knows it’s only been one day, and Dean is good at faking things, but this is a little more specific than their usual gig calls for.

Dean groans and drops his head to the table. “Truthfully, man, it’s terrible. I don’t know what I’m doing,” Dean admits. “I can’t really dance. Not like these guys.”

Sharon pats him on the hand. “Don’t worry about it. You’re hot and you can move. We’ll use you as a partner. Just listen to what we say. Besides, it’s just nice to have some men for the women to dance with.” She looks over at Sam. “You should come by, too, if you have some free time. We’re always short guys.”

Sam’s shaking his head, eyes wide before she gets the sentence out. “No. No, thank you. I’m terrible. Really klutzy. Ask Dean.”

He looks to Dean for support, but Dean’s no help. He’s looking at him appraisingly. “I don’t know, Sammy. You were getting pretty good. You had some moves at that school dance couple a months ago.” Dean shimmies in his seat, biting his bottom lip with a little white man’s overbite. Sam punches him on the arm and he just laughs.

Dallas stands up, gathering up the remains of his lunch. “Don’t listen to him, Sam. Just show up. Looking like you do...” He smiles as he blatantly checks Sam out. “You’ll do alright.”

Dean spreads his hands, shocked. “Did you just check out my little brother?”

Dallas shrugs one shoulder. “Maybe. He said he’s 18, right?”

“And two months,” Sam adds with a grin he can’t hold back. Maybe he will check out dance class.

Now Dean’s looking at him, hands still spread out, “Hello, right here.”

Frankie laughs and stands up as well. Sharon leans over and pats Dean on the cheek. Sam’s eyes are magnetically drawn to her cleavage. Those are some nice breasts. “Don’t worry, honey. You’re still the prettiest boy at the dance and you know it. But your brother here is some stiff competition. Those dimples? You’d better watch out for him.” She slides gracefully off the bench and picks up her tray.

Dean scoffs, shakes his head. “I always do.”

“You coming?” Frankie asks, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and smacking them against the palm of one hand. “We got two afternoon classes. Cha-cha and waltz.”

“Yeah, I’ll be right there,” Dean answers. He walks towards the tray return window, looking over his shoulder at Sam.

“See you around, Sam,” Dallas calls with a wave.

“See you,” Sam answers, lifting a hand in return.

Dean takes Sam’s tray from his hand and drops them both on the pass-through to the kitchen. He doesn’t say anything as they walk to the door.

Outside, the clouds are starting to move in from the west and the humidity is high. The silence between them is awkward and Sam really doesn’t want to find out which one of the many reasons it could be. 

“No more lifeguarding today?” Dean asks.

“Later. I have the 3-5 shift. Thought I’d head over the the main house and try to do some research. They have wifi there.”

Dean nods, but doesn’t leave. He rubs the back of his neck with one hand.

 _Oh god._ That’s never good. Sam shifts. “So, uh, I should...”

“So,” Dean interrupts. “You and, uh, guys?”

 _Oh, that._ That he can handle. It taken him a bit to realize he liked guys and girls, then a little longer to be okay with it, but it’s been a couple of years and he’s good.

He shrugs one shoulder, looks a little sheepish. He probably should have told Dean but it just, never came up. “Yeah. Not only guys, but yeah. Sometimes.”

Dean does the little head tilt, eyebrow raise thing he does when he’s processing new information. And really, you can’t blame Sam for staring at Dean. You have to. If you want to hear what Dean Winchester is saying, you have to watch him. If you’re just listening to the words, you’re missing 90% of the message. Of course there is the danger that if you look too much into his face, you won’t be able to hear the words at all. Sometimes Sam sees Dean’s face on his retinas like an afterimage of the sun long after he’s walked away.

It’s not fair to be that pretty. It’s not fair for Sam to have to be around it all the time.

“Sam?”

And this would be one of those times the sight of Dean’s mouth moving blotted out the sound of the words coming out of it. Damn it, Sam really needs some alone time in his bunk right now.

“You okay?” Dean asks.

Sam nods like a bobble head on a dashboard. “Yeah, fine. Good. I’m good. And you’re, uh, good with, you know. Me. And guys?” He didn’t quite hear what Dean said but given that a)he’s still standing next to Sam and b)hasn’t punched him or anything, Sam figures it can’t be too bad.

Dean huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, Sammy. I’m good. We really haven’t talked a lot, like really talked, in a while, have we?”

Sam shakes his head, wide-eyed. They hadn’t. That was the hardest thing about loving Dean. The hardest thing about wanting Dean in such very unbrotherly ways. Sam didn’t trust himself around Dean. And the nicer Dean was to him, the closer he tried to be, the more Sam loved him and the more he had to push him away for both their sakes. It sucked beyond the telling. Cut so deep that Sam thought the pain of leaving, of making that break, could only be better.

“That’s too bad. I know you’re going through some stuff. I didn’t know about this, you know...” he trails off. “But, well,” Dean twists his head up to look at the sky, the earth, the woods, any place that isn’t Sam’s face. “You’re not alone. You know. In anything. Ever.”

Sam can feel his eyes widen. _No._ He can’t mean. Sam would have noticed. He would have seen. “Dean?”

Now it’s Dean’s turn to shrug. “I don’t tell you everything, Samantha.”

“Oh, wow.” 

Dean punches him on the arm. “Yeah, yeah. So, Dallas?”

“I just saw him for, like, ten minutes!”

“I know. But he is kinda hot, right?” Dean’s got that wicked look in his eye and the beginnings of a smirk.

Sam laughs. A weight he hadn’t even noticed amongst the weight of all the other secrets was lifted off him and the respite, how ever small, and however short-lived, was nice. “Yeah, Dean. He’s pretty hot.”

“Hotter than Sharon?” Dean’s looking at him now. More serious, assessing. And some imp of the perverse makes Sam step in closer to Dean. Close enough to see the gold flecks in his green eyes.

“I don’t know, Dean. I’d have to check them both out a little bit more closely to decide.” He sees the black of Dean’s pupils expand in a heartbeat, swallowing up the green and he stops breathing. _Oh shit. Oh shit._ It’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen, and he stumbles back from the force of the punch of desire that hits him in the stomach.

Dean hasn’t moved. “I gotta go,” he’s saying and Sam can only nod. “See you at dinner?” he asks as if Sam has somewhere else to be. 

Sam nods some more. “Okay.”

Sam watches him until he disappears into the trees.


	2. Chapter 2

In the end, turns out Sam does has somewhere else to be - in the nurse’s cabin with a terrified twelve-year-old boy, the Camp Director, and the Head of Security. He can sense Dean hanging around outside but they aren’t letting anybody else in. The only reason Sam is there is because the kid won’t let go of his wrist and screams if anybody tries to make Sam leave.

Dean paces outside the cabin and wishes he could smoke. He knows Sammy’s okay, but Dean needs to know what the fuck happened. All he’d heard was that some kid playing on the dock had almost drowned and but the new lifeguard had saved him. They’d said it looked like both of them had gotten tangled in something.

The door opens and the Director and Head of Security come out, followed by Sam. Dean figures the kid’s dad is still in there. His mom and sister had left earlier. Gone back to pack, probably. Another empty cabin.

Sam looks up, searching, and Dean catches his eye. Dean jerks his head towards the back of the cabin and Sam nods. The security guy says something to Sam, claps his hand on Sam’s shoulder and leaves. Sam sticks his hands in the pockets of his sweatshirt and walks slowly down the wooden steps.

Dean watches him as he walks, looking for signs of injury. He’s limping a little. When he gets close enough, Dean grabs him, unzipping his sweatshirt to check for any injuries Sam might have neglected to mention. Sam doesn’t even try to object, just holds out his arms for the pat down. He’d be doing the same to Dean if their positions were reversed. 

Sam sucks in a breath when Dean reaches his ankles. Dean looks up from where he’s crouched by Sam’s feet. “Yeah?” He slides the sweatpants up. There are fingertip bruises around both ankles and scratches down the achilles tendons. That has to hurt. “Damn, that’s nasty. Let’s get those fixed up. Can you walk?”

“Yeah. It just stings. And I think I pulled a muscle in my groin.”

Dean tugs the sweatpants back down and pats Sam’s calf. “Can’t have that. Not with your busy schedule.”

Sam aims a half-hearted kick at Dean as he stands. “Shut up.”

“Whatever, stud.” Dean puts an arm around Sam’s waist, giving him a little support as they walk slowly to their cabin.

 

They wait until they’re inside to talk about it. “What are we dealing with?” Dean asks as he opens up the first aid kit. “Is it a ghost? Or water spirit of some kind?”

Sam winces as he pulls off his shoes. “Definitely ghost. I got a good look at it when it fucking grabbed me. It was a girl.”

“Fits what Frankie said.” He looks at the holy water and the hydrogen peroxide, then decides on both. You can never be too careful with ghost and who knows what was in that lake. All those kids peeing in it all day. “What do you think about the sister? She still hanging around?”

Sam has pushed up against the headboard. Eyes closed, head leaning back, he looks wiped out. “Don’t know,” he says. “I didn’t see anything else, but something made me look up. Just a feeling.” 

“Huh,” Dean says helpfully. He sits on the end of the bed, puts a towel on his lap, and lifts Sam’s feet up. “This might sting a bit,” he warns. Sam doesn’t even flinch as Dean cleans up the scrapes. He makes a pleased sound when Dean rubs arnica into his bruises. It’s kind of dark on the bottom bunk, but Dean thinks he gets them all. “Gonna have a nice ankle bracelet for while there.” He takes Sam’s feet into his hands one at a time and gently flexes them. “Any sprains? Pulls?”

Sam shakes his head. “I don’t think so. But the kid she grabbed s’gonna have a messed up knee for a while. I don’t like that raft.”

“Yeah?” Dean stays where he is, Sam’s feet on this lap, hand rubbing gently up and down Sam’s shins.

“Yeah.” Sam opens his eyes and looks at Dean. “It always looks sketchy to me. Anyway, I saw her reach up and pull him right off. I swear I never swam so fast in my life. I thought he was dead for sure.”

Dean gives Sam’s knee a comforting squeeze. It’s never easy to see a civilian die. “But you saved him. How’d you get him away?”

“Salt. And a lot of kicking.” 

“You had salt in the lake?” He stops rubbing.

“Well, yeah. Precautionary. I thought it could be a ghost.” He shrugs. “I stuffed a plastic bag of it into my suit before I went down to the lake.”

Dean shakes his head. Sam never fails to surprise him. “That is fucking brilliant, dude.” He scoots further back on the bed until his back is against the wall. The bottom of the top bunk is about two inches from the top of his head. Sam slumps down until his knees are hooked over Dean’s thighs. “D’you get anything from your geek stuff after lunch?”

“So get this,” Sam says with a sigh as Dean starts rubbing his knees and shins. It’s something they started the summer Sam turned fourteen, when the growing pains got really bad. “There are a lot of bodies up here. The Catskills are like the Angeles Forest of New York. A kind of general dumping ground. People are always finding bodies and skeletons when they dig shit up.”

“Well, that’s less than helpful.”

Sam hmms his agreement. “I did find out some story that fits though. Two sisters, half-sisters maybe, gone missing around here, around the late seventies. They were part of some weird cult from Brooklyn. Speculation is the leader who was either their father or husband or possibly both - “

“Ew,” Dean interrupts.

“Seriously. So, he killed them. Possibly because they were running away, possibly because he caught them in bed together.” He punches Dean in the shoulder. “Don’t even say it.”

Dean’s expression is wounded. “I would never, Sam. Never disrespect the dead. Especially not when they could hear you and have been murdering people.”

“Good philosophy. Well, whatever the reason he killed them, he never said what he did with them. They only found the older sister’s body. The other girl’s body is still out there.” 

Sam sighs deeply and Dean has to agree with him. Talk about a needle in a haystack. Oh, wait, it’s worse that that. What if...he opens his mouth to speak but Sam forestalls him with a hand.

“Don’t even say it. I know. What if it’s in the lake.” 

Dean closes his mouth. “Yeah. Can’t salt and burn a lake.”

“No, you cannot.” Sam agrees. “You know it’s in there, right?”

“Yeah.” It doesn’t make Dean feel any better. “Well, fuck.”

They sit in silence as the room gets darker with the sunset, Dean keeping up the steady sweep of his hands up and down Sam’s legs. “So, they might have been, uh, sleeping together?”

“It was a theory,” Sam mutters. He’s half asleep. Dean’s hungry but there’s no way he’s going to move from under Sam’s knees for something so mundane as food. Sam touches him so infrequently, he’ll take what he can get and hope that Sam never notices how desperately he needs it.

He hears Sam’s breathing even out as his legs drop against Dean’s. The heavy massaging strokes slip into something softer, lighter, until Dean is basically caressing the long length of Sam’s legs from the crease of his hip to the knob of ankle bone. He forces himself to stop when he notices his hand creeping higher, each time sliding more into the inside of Sam’s thighs. Closer to places Dean has no business thinking about, let alone touching. He had crap luck not thinking about it over the years, but he’s never touched Sam like that. He would never. He’s not fool enough to think Sam wouldn’t beat the crap out of him. Sam’s not a freak like Dean.

He forces himself to stop and tries to figure out the best way to get out from underneath Sam’s legs without waking him up. The wooden footboard blocks him from sliding out that way. In the end, he just kicks off his shoes and hunkers down. The night’s warm and Sam is a human furnance.

“Dean,” Sam mutters as Dean shifts his numb butt. “Lay down.” Sam lifts his arm for Dean to fit in and Dean tips over onto his side, pillowing his head on Sam’s shoulders, legs still intertwined. It should be weird but it’s not. It’s what they do, what they’ve always done on rough days. No one sleeps alone after a near death experience. 

They’re asleep within seconds.

 

The next day Sam’s got the early morning shift again, right after breakfast. The other lifeguards are only to happy to give it to him. It’s cold in the mornings. He jogs down the path from the kitchen to the lake only to be stopped by a “Lake Closed” sign. 

Oh well. He might as well go do some more research then, try to at least narrow down where to look. He sighs deeply at the hopelessness of it all and decides ten more minutes won’t kill anyone. He hopes. The ghost has seemed to only be active at the lake. Good, in that it’s easier to keep people safe as long as they stay out of the water. Like a shark attack. Bad, in that it means it’s more than likely that whatever is keeping the spirit tied to this plain is in the lake.

It’s really quiet here, now. The noise of the camp doesn’t make its way down this far. Sam walks around the sign and crosses the small beach to stand at the edge. It’s not a big lake. He could swim across it easy. But it’s deep and it's dark. The lake bed drops off sharply outside the buoys and Sam knows now that the water is icy cold not far below the surface. 

He’s not sure what he’s looking for, really. The cool water feels good on his bruises, and he lets his mind drift as the wavelets lick at his ankles.

Two dead girls and only one body found. Sam wonders what he would do if he and Dean died together. Would they stay together? Would they be together in whatever kind of afterlife there was? Sam had seen enough ghosts to know that something remained after death. But he’d always wondered what happened to the ghosts after they salted and burn the bones. He’d stopped asking after John had brushed him off with a ‘not our problem,’ and Dean had shrugged and said he was in no hurry to find out.

He can’t imagine living without Dean. It’s the part of going away to college that his mind skitters away from. It’s not like he can’t see Dean on holidays and summers. He’ll have almost four weeks off around Christmas. Even as he thinks it, he knows it’s not going to happen. Knows it in his bones, like the way he does sometimes. When he says goodbye, if he even gets to say goodbye, he’s not going to see Dean for a long, long time.

He’s going to be so lonely. 

A band tightens across his heart. So tight, he presses his fist hard into his chest and grasps through the pain. He rests his hands on his bent knees, breathing hard, and he watches the water ripple around his feet. The temperature plummets and all the hair on the back of his neck and his arms bristles. _Oh, shit._ Now his heart is pounding for a different reason. He needs to look up, needs to grab the salt in his pocket, but he’s paralyzed. He laughs wildly that his last thought will be about how much he’s going to miss Dean.

It’s behind him. The air freezes in his lungs as a cold fingers grip his shirt, dragging him backwards. His heart pounds, he feels it in his temples, and the lack of oxygen is starting to make the edges of his vision go grey. But nothing more happens, just the pulling, and Sam staggers awkwardly backwards, footstep by footstep out of the water until he stands on dry sand. 

There’s a flicker out by the dock and a rolling wave of despair crashes over him from both sides.

 _So lonely_. He feels it in his bones more than hears it. _So lonely,_ the ghost repeats. _I know_ , she says and flickers out of existence.

Sam stands at the lake a long time.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean’s dancing with Sharon out on the large porch of the main house and trying really hard not to look at his feet.

They’re between classes, nothing to do for the next hour, and she’s trying to help Dean get ready for the end of summer show. A show he just found out about fifteen minutes ago; a show there’s pretty much zero chance he’ll be participating in. Even if they do somehow manage to find, salt and burn the bones of a ghost who is probably buried under a freakin’ lake, and they do it before the camp gets shut down or goes out of business, there’s not much chance John will let them stick around the rest of the summer, all Dean’s daydreams to the contrary.

And show or not, he won’t be tango-ing with Sharon, that’s for sure. They tried that and, well, it _was_ awesome to see Dallas laugh so hard he fell backwards off the railing but it’s not really the reaction they were looking for. He’ll stick with the foxtrot and, if by some miracle, the show does go on with him in it, he’ll pick one of the better dancers from the class and dance with her. 

That is, if he can even manage that much. Sharon is endlessly patient, but for some reason it’s just not working out so well. Dean keeps misjudging where her body is and he doesn’t quite trust her not to smack him into the railing or the wall, even though technically he’s leading. “Come on, honey. I know you can get it,” she encourages. “I saw you foxtrot this morning with Mrs. Mason.” 

“Yeah, well, she let me lead.”

Sharon laughs. “I’ll let you lead when I think you know what you’re doing.”

Dean smirks and pulls her tightly against his chest. “Oh, I know what I’m doing,” he purrs. He slides his hand down her back and leads her through a fairly filthy sequence of moves. He tries a fancy spin for a finish and laughs out loud when it works. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sam headed towards them. Sharon hasn’t let go of him, and she can see a look he knows well in her hooded eyes.

“So how old are you again?” she asks, licking her lips.

Dean smiles down at her. “Twenty two. Legal for everything, in every state. Hey, Sam,” he calls without looking away from Sharon. He can hear Sam’’s steps slowing as he reaches the top of the stairs.

“Am I interrupting something?” he asks.

“Not yet.”

Sharon and Sam give him matching eye rolls. Well, he assumes Sam is, and he can see Sharon’s. He looks between them, and gives both of them the full Dean Winchester smile and head tilt. It earns him an arm punch from Sharon and a half-smile and head shake from Sam. Good enough.

“So what’s up?” Dean asks. “You’re back early. No one else got hurt, did they?” he asks, suddenly serious.

“No, no. Lake’s closed.” Sam hitches one butt cheek up onto the railing and swings his leg back and forth. “I just had a little feeling I should go down there for a while.” 

Dean cocks an eyebrow at Sam. _Now?_ he asks silently, getting an almost invisible head shake in return. So nothing urgent, but Dean can tell Sam’s a little shaken. He looks pale, mouth in a tight line, and he’s rubbing at the ring of bruises around his ankle.

“Oh yeah,” Sharon says. “You boys missed dinner last night. Mr. Weisman made an announcement about that. Going to be closed until they can determine it’s safe.” She scoffs. “However they hope to do that. Couldn’t get me near that lake for love or money now.” She slides over and pats Sam on the knee. “How are you feeling? I heard that little boy almost pulled you in after him.”

Sam shakes his head. “I’m fine. So’s the kid. Sean. I just tried to check up on him. He’s gone. Whole family packed up and left.”

Dean and Sam exchange a look. They’ve got to get this figured out sooner rather than later. One more incident and either the cops are going to force the camp to close or Weisman isn’t going to be able to keep it open anyway. Which sucks for Mr. Weisman and everyone here. And, oh yeah, people could die. 

He needs to hear what Sam has to say. He just about to beg off from the dance lessons, when he sees Sharon looking speculatively from him to Sam.

“Hey, Sam, stand up for a second,” she says. 

Sam catches his eye and Dean shrugs one shoulder. Sam slides off the banister.

“Come here,” Sharon says. She presses a button on the boombox balanced precariously on the porch railing and restarts the song on the CD.

Dean watches as Sharon pulls Sam into a basic dance stance and gives him a quick swing around the porch. Sam’s not bad, Dean decides, evaluating him with all the knowledge he’s gained in his one day of being a dance instructor. San’s not looking at his feet too much, mostly because he’s too busy try not to look down the top of Sharon’s dress. _Good luck with that,_ Dean thinks. Sharon’s got him held pretty firmly into her body, and Dean knows well how good that feels. Sam’s not hating it, Dean can tell. The top of Sam’s ears always turn red when he’s embarrassed or turned on. Or both. With Sam, it’s usually both. Dean’s feeling a little turned on himself and he’s wishing his admittedly-flattering black pants weren’t quite so tight.

As he watches Sam and Sharon move across the porch, he wonders idly what it would be like to be in the show, everybody watching him dance. Dean’s not stupid, he knows he’s hot. If he’s being completely honest, he doesn’t hate it when people look at him. And if he’s being _completely_ completely honest, he’d loved those couple of months in ninth grade when he had to take dance lessons as part of gym class. He always was good with his body. And dancing was basically foreplay. People pressed up against you, music playing. What’s not to love?

Sharon does some spins and, grabbing Sam close, some thrusting grind that Dean is almost 100% sure isn’t on the list of approved steps for the foxtrot. She deposits a very flushed Sam in front of Dean. The tops of his ears are bright red now. Dean snorts quietly when Sam surreptitiously tries to pull his sweatshirt down over the obvious bulge in his pants. 

“Yeah, that’s not going to help, Sasquatch,” he offers. Sam gives him a death glare and shifts uncomfortably.

“Not bad.” Sharon announces. “Now dance with Dean.”

She laughs when they both raise their eyebrows in identical expressions of surprise.

Dean can’t help the way his eyes dart down to Sam’s lap. He’s not thinking about the last dance lesson two years ago. He’s not. “Wh-” he tries, voice cracking. He clears his throat and tries again. “Why do you want us to dance together?”

“Because it’s easier for me to see where you need coaching when I’m not dancing with you,” Sharon explains. “I don’t want you embarrassing me in front of the class.”

“Ah,” Dean starts. 

“Chicken?” Sam asks.

 _Oh, it is so on_. He steps up to Sam, holds out his hands in the lead position. “Show me what you got, little brother.” Dean steps forward on his left and Sam steps back with his right. So far, so good. The next steps don’t go as well. Dean’s trying to lead but it feels like Sam’s just fighting him on every step.

“Loosen up, dude,” he says, coming to a stop. Sharon pauses the music. He grabs Sam’s hands and shakes his arms hard and fast like he’d done when Sam was a kid. Spaghetti arms, they used to call it.

“I’m trying. Really.” Sam furrows his brow, like he’s trying to think his way into dancing better.

Dean holds out his hands and gives Sharon a nod. She presses play. “Come on, let’s try it again.”

It’s not bad, the dancing. Sam’s hands feel good, his arms strong and solid against the push of Dean’s hold. But it’s not that good either. There’s no flow. Sam isn’t actually looking at his feet or looking over his shoulder, but it feels like he is. He’s trying so hard to anticipate what Dean is going to ask for that he actually moves first a couple of times.

Sharon stops the music and they stagger to a halt. She staring at them, one finger tapping against her lip.

Sam wipes his palms on his pants. “Sorry. I’m trying.”

Dean pats him on the shoulder. Normally, he’d make a crack at Sam’s expense, but Sam’s eyebrows are drawn together and the tops of his ears are red again. Dean knows it’s all embarrassment this time. Sam hates to do things poorly in front of other people. It’s worse in front of a beautiful woman. Luckily for Sam, he usually does everything really well.

“I have an idea,” Sharon announces. “Sam, you lead.”

Sam looks at Dean as if he has something to say about it. He just switches his hands around, putting his right hand on Sam’s left shoulder. He laughs at Sam’s wide eyes. “What do we have to lose?” He gets kind of caught in Sam’s eyes, noticing (again) the way the gold and green are shot through with blue. Sam looks nervous, eyes darting over Dean’s shoulder as they hear Dallas come up onto the porch. “Hey, look at me.” He taps Sam on the jaw. “It’s no biggie. Just a dance. Like sparring, but standing up.”

Sam laughs weakly and shakes his head. “Ooh-kay.” He puts a hand on Dean’s waist and holds up the other with a smile. “Trust me?” he asks.

“With my life, dude.” Dean smiles back and lays his hand in Sam’s. 

Sharon starts the music and they begin again. Sam moves forward and Dean moves backwards, hands clasped, silently urging Sam forward. Dean is struck with a sense memory of helping a one-year-old Sam learn to walk; hours spent walking bent over and backwards with Sam’s tiny baby fingers clinging to his still-chubby pre-school hands. It takes his breath away, how important Sam is to him. How much of him lives in Sam.

Something of it must show in his eyes, because Sam’s expression goes soft and his mouth falls open a little in a small o. Dean hesitates and Sam presses into him chest to groin. “Sorry,” they both say at the same time.

“Keep going,” Sharon calls encouragingly. “You got this.”

Dean looks at Sam and has this overwhelming urge to kiss him. But the music plays and Sam steps forward and they’re dancing again. It’s definitely better this time. One minute into it and Dean can feel the difference already. Sam doesn’t know much more than the basic steps, but after eighteen years of watching Sam, after years of having each other’s backs, it’s easy to feel where Sam is going to move them. Dean can almost predict it, but he waits for Sam’s signal, waits until he know’s Sam’s committed before he moves. Even without looking, Dean has an awareness of the space around him and he knows Sam does do.

When the song ends, they’re both grinning. Dallas and Sharon clap, with Dallas throwing in a piercing whistle. “That was hot,” he says. Then his eyes go wide. “Is that okay to say? I mean, I know you’re brothers, but still. Hot.”

“And that was just a foxtrot,” Sharon says, eyes alight. “Imagine if we could get them to rhumba.” Dallas’ gaze goes a little unfocused, drift up and to the right like he’s picturing it in his mind. Sharon’s looking at them like they’re edible and Dean realizes Sam’s still got his arm around his waist. His own hand rests between Sam’s shoulder blades and they’re both breathing hard. Dancing is more work than it looks.

Dallas' voice snaps them back to the here and now. “So? Are we practicing for the end of season show?”

Sam and Dean nod.

“Nice. You going to dance with each other?” 

Sam drops his hand off Dean’s waist, shaking his head in denial. “No. Oh no. I’m just helping Dean practice. I’m not going to dance in public.”

Dallas hops off the railing. “Okay, man. Whatever. But you will dance tonight, right?”

“What’s tonight?”

Dallas pulls out his stack of CDs and starts sorting through them. “Friday night staff party. At ten, after everyone’s off.”

“Awesome,” Dean say. “We’ll be there.”

Sam gives him the ‘Dean, we have work to do’ face.

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry about it, Samuel. We’ll do our homework first.” He reaches for Sharon’s hand and twists it to read her watch. “Almost time for my next class. What are you going to do, Sam? Read a book?”

“Yeah. and I, uh, need to tell you about this weird dream I had. About the lake.”

 _Oh, fuck._ That can’t be good. Dean looks at Sam, who raises his eyebrows. He squints into the sun. “Hey, Sharon,” he calls, rubbing the back of his neck. “I left something at my cabin. I’m gonna run Sam back. Cover for me for ten minutes?”

Sharon waves him off. “No problem.”

 

They wait until they’re inside to talk. Sam strips off his sweatshirt and sweatpants. In just a t-shirt and swim shorts, he’s all tan legs and arms. He’s grown at least five inches this past year, three across the shoulders, and he’s all lanky and stretched. Going by how much he eats, Dean thinks he’s still got a few inches left to grow, which is totally unfair. But he’s still got some baby fat in his cheeks; still has a softness to his face that makes Dean inexplicably happy.

Dean stretches his arms on the rail of the top bunk, his knee on the bed next to Sam. His head hangs down into the space of the bottom bunk. “So what’s up?”

Sam tilts his head up to see him better. “I saw the ghost again today. I think I saw both of them.”

“What?” Dean drops his hands and kneels down next to Sam on the bed. “Are you hurt? What the hell, Sam?” He runs his hands up and down Sam’s legs and arm as he asks.

Sam bats him away. “Dean, dean, stop. I’m fine. I would have said something. I would have,” he adds off of Dean’s cynical look. “I think one of them, well, saved me. Or helped me.”

Dean doesn’t even know where to start. This goes against everything they know about ghosts. First an attack in daylight, then Sammy sees both of them in the day, and one _helped_ him? “Dude, what the hell?” he repeats.

Sam spreads his hands, shrugging. “It was like she came up behind me, and...” Sam’s shoulders hunch up and his hands clench like he’s grabbing and pulling something.

“It touched you?” Dean is incredulous. He’s never heard of that. “Man, I wish Dad were here.”

When Sam nods in agreement, Dean knows Sam is more freaked than he’s letting on. “And...”

Dean gestures impatiently for Sam to go on. “And?” he prompts.

. “And she spoke to me.” Sam looks up at Dean like he’s begging him to believe him. Why wouldn’t Dean believe him?

Dean nudges Sam over with his foot until Sam slides over enough for Dean to sit next to him. “Dude, she talked to you? What did she say?”

“So lonely,” he says quietly. “She came up to me and said, ‘so lonely’.”

The way he says it breaks Dean’s heart. Sam’s not even gone yet and already Dean aches with missing him.

Dean’s not stupid. He knows he’s losing Sam. He’s not sure why and he’s not sure how, though he has a pretty good idea. He’s known since Sam took the SATs last year. He knows it’s going to kill him when it happens, but it might save Sammy. Maybe one of them will get out of this life alive.

Sam looks so young right then, eyes haunted, looking at something far away. Dean picks up Sam’s hand and turns it over, running his fingers gently over the palm. 

Sam whips his head around, eyes wide. He looks from where their hands are joined, then up to Dean’s face. Dean slides his fingers to the pulse point on his wrist, trying to feel Sam’s heart beating. It’s never as easy as they make it look on TV, and Dean can’t feel anything but the blood pulsing in his own fingertips.

“Dean?” Sam licks his lips, but doesn’t pull away. Dean keeps looking down, watching his fingers trace Sam’s lifeline.

“Do you think she was talking about herself, Sammy? Her sister?” He pauses, traces down the other line on Sam’s palm. “Or you? Or me, after you’re gone?”

Sam tries to yank his hand away, but Dean tightens his grip, holding him still. 

“Dean,” he says again. “It’s not...I’m not...”

Dean is shaking his head before Sam can finish whatever lie he is trying, and failing, to come up with. “Don’t, Sam. Just don’t. Don’t lie to me, okay?” He looks up at Sam, their faces inches apart. “Okay?”

Sam nods, but his eyes have a suspicious shine to them. Dean swallows and looks away. “So, killer ghost. Lonely? Alone?”

Sam clears his throat. “It was, kind of both of them. They’re both lonely. ” Sam breaks off as Dean traces the length of Sam’s fingers with his own. He exhales heavily. “I think the one is tied to the land and the other’s trapped in the lake.”

Dean shakes his head. “Sure sounds that way. Tough break, man. Separated in death. Can’t imagine a worse thing.” 

Sam makes a broken sound that might almost be Dean’s name.

The tension is building up in the room. It’s already hot and stuffy with the closed windows and Dean is starting to get dizzy with it all. He should really leave. There’s only so long Sharon and Dallas can cover for him. But he couldn’t leave now if the room was on fire.

“The one in the lake?” Sam’s voice is tight. “She’s so angry. So mad. I could feel it. And the one on the shore was so sad.”

“We’ll fix it, Sam. It’s what we do.”

Sam flexes his hand under Dean’s hold and Dean rubs it between his own palms. He can feel where their calluses match up and where they don’t. Sam uses his knives more than Dean does. “We have to find them both. We have to send them on together.” He can’t meet Dean’s eyes.

“Yeah,” Dean answers softly. Like he would do anything else. They lived together, died together, who is he to separate them now. “I’ll keep them together, Sammy.”

Sam pulls their clasped hands over to his stomach. “Dean,” he says, voice pained. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The sound Dean makes is nowhere near a laugh, just a harsh exhale. “I know, Sammy. I know. But you gotta do what you gotta do, okay?”

Sam nods. Up and down quickly like his head in on spring, like he always does when he can’t find the words. “God, Dean. I just...I have to...” He looks up at Dean, his whole heart in his eyes. “I feel like I’m dying, Dean.”

And after eighteen years of watching him, Dean knows when Sam is going to move, can almost predict where he’s going to move them. But he waits for the signal from Sam; waits until Sam’s committed. So it’s not really a surprise when Sam reaches up and pulls Dean’s mouth to his.

It is a surprise how fierce the kiss is; how much Sam takes and how easy Dean gives it up for his brother. Sam’s hand is tight against the back of Dean’s head, fingertips digging into the bone behind his ear. He nips at Dean’s lips until Dean opens up for him. 

Once they’re open for each other, the kiss softens. Sam bites on Dean’s bottom lip and it goes right to Dean’s cock. Dean gives it back, sucking hard on the plush flesh between his teeth, and Sam moans into Dean’s mouth. _Brothers_ , Dean thinks. 

Sam pulls off gasping, resting his forehead against Dean’s, hand still cradling Dean’s skull. Dean reaches up and grabs his wrist. “Sammy,” he breathes.

Sam just breathes heavily and nods, rocking Dean’s head up and down with him.

“Sammy. Sam,” Dean repeats, pulling Sam’s hand off, tipping Sam’s head up to look at him. “I have to go.”

“Yeah,” Sam breathes. “I know.” He throws his arm over his head. “Yeah, I’m sorry. I know.”

Dean pulls his arm away from face. “I have to go because I have to work.” He dives down for a quick kiss, pulling back before Sam can grab him. “It’s going to be okay.” Sam leans forward with intent and Dean quickly slaps his hand over Sam’s mouth. “I gotta _go_ , man.”

Sam laughs behind Dean’s hand and licks a long stripe up it, biting hard at the fleshy part of Dean’s palm. “Fucker,” Dean curses. He yanks his hand away. Giving Sam one last, long look, he catches his breath at the way the tent in Sam’s shorts jerks when Sam notices his looking.

Dean rolls off the bed with a groan, hand pressed hard against his own borderline painful erection. Sam’s eyes follow him the whole way and he resists the urge to kiss Sam goodbye. It was too messed up, too symbolic. He pauses at the door, back to Sammy. “See you at lunch?” he asks, voice hoarse.

“Yeah,” Sam answers immediately “Of course.” His voice is no more steady than Dean’s.

Dean nods. “Good. Well, see you,” He closes his eyes and mentally shakes his head at how much of idiot he sounds like. But what is the right way to say goodbye to your little brother after you just had your tongue down his throat?

He makes it halfway back to the ballroom before he has to duck into the woods and take care of the throbbing between his legs that obviously isn’t going to go away on it’s own. He braces his forearm on a tree and rests his head on it. Chest heaving, he yanks open the high-waisted pants and wraps his hand around himself with a groan. An embarrassingly short time later, he comes hard with his brother’s name clenched between his teeth and the memory of Sam’s mouth under his.

 _We are so damned,_ he thinks as he pulls himself together.


	4. Chapter 4

Lunch is torture. They push and pull at each other, coming close enough to touch and then moving apart. It’s not out of the ordinary for them to be touching. They’re always touching each other, sitting close, Dean’s arm putting him in a headlock, Sam’s elbow into Dean’s ribs. And, Sam’s favorite touch up until a few hours ago, Dean’s hand flat against Sam’s chest, over his heart, when he says goodbye.

But now every touch is fraught. Everybody here knows they’re brothers. Sam knows it’s ridiculous, but he feels like there’s a big sign saying “I kissed my brother,” some kind of scarlet I, on his forehead. Dean had barely been out the door before Sam had ripped his jeans open and jerked himself to a teeth-rattling, eye-rolling orgasm. He’d come so hard, twisting on the bed, that he’d had to clean off the wall and shower after. There may have been a brief nap somewhere in between those two events.

He follows Dean to the table with Sharon and Dallas and he’s not sure he can do this. He watches Dean back muscles shifting under his shirt, watches his perfect ass as he walks, and it’s like every feelings he’s ever repressed or squashed down low is fighting its way back into his consciousness. It’s making him dizzy. Dean steps over the bench as usual, and Sam slides in from the end, leaving what he assumes is a reasonable, brotherly space between them. 

“Hey,” Dallas says, smiling at him. “Nice moves today.” 

Dean coughs, and Sam can feel Dean deliberately not looking at him. “Thanks. It was all Dean though.” He keeps staring down at his plate as if hot dogs and tater tots are the most fascinating thing he’d seen in days.

Sharon shakes her head. “No, it’s the two of you. Together. You move like you’ve been dancing together for years. Like you know how each other is going move.”

Dean’s frowning contemplatively. “Yeah, well, that makes sense. Our dad is kind of -” He shoots a look over the Sam who wisely keeps his mouth shut. “Intense. A Marine. He’s had us sparring with each other practically since Sam could walk.”

Frankie strides over, looking very Rat Pack in a tux, bow tie hanging down his shirt. He bumps Sam’s shoulder with his elbow. “Slide over. Let your elders sit.”

Dean slides over as far as he can without touching the kid next to him. Sam slides until his thigh is pressed up against Dean’s, and Frankie sits down. Dean is moving his leg up and down the barest inch, just enough for Sam to feel him sliding against his thigh. Sam swallows, and fights to stop his eyes from fluttering shut like some busty heroine in a romance novel. 

“I feel a little underdressed, Frankie,” Dean is saying. “I didn’t realize this was a formal weiner occasion.” 

“My weiner is always formal,” Frankie retorts, tossing a tater tot at Dean over Sam’s head. Dean snatches it out of the air and pops it in his mouth. The whole time his leg hasn’t stopped sliding against Sam’s, and Sam really isn’t going to survive this. 

This isn’t how this was supposed to go. It wasn’t supposed to go at all. Sam was supposed to take it with him when he left. Get some distance from Dean. And if Dean ever did find out - like happened in some of Sam’s more twisted nightmarish fantasies where he manages to find both reward and punishment at the same time - then Dean was supposed to be disgusted. He’s supposed to push Sam away, call him freak and unnatural, tell him they were no longer brothers. He’s supposed to make it easier for Sam to leave. He isn’t supposed to want Sam back.

What they hell is Sam supposed to with that? There is no contingency plan for this in the scenario Sam has lovingly honed over the last two years.

It’s a question that haunts him all through lunch. It echoes in his brain when Dean pushes him up against the wall of an abandoned lean-to and kisses him until he can’t breath. Dean’s fingertips leaving bruises on his biceps. Dean pulls away, searching Sam’s eyes for something Sam isn’t sure he finds. His cocks an eyebrow sardonically as he wipes his mouth, his smile is tight and doesn’t reach his eyes. “See you later, Sammy.” And Sam wants to cry.

He makes sure Dean’s out of sight before he starts banging the back of his head against the wall. What the fuck is wrong with him? Why is _he_ the one freaking out? He’d never really understood the whole ‘be careful what you wish for, you just might get it’ thing. He really _really_ gets it now. He has to get away, just a bit. Mr. Weisman hasn’t given him a new assignment yet and the library in town is only three miles away. Just the right length for a run.

He whips off a quick note for Dean then heads off into town. 

 

It’s dark by the time Sam makes his way up to the staff recreation room, freshly showered and changed. He’d checked in with Dean a couple of times so he wouldn’t worry. He’s positive now that they’re dealing with Liza and Emily Washington. Half-sisters killed by their psycho cult-leader/father/molester. It makes Sam sick just to think about it. Most of Liza was found, but her little sister’s body never did show up. They really need to get back down to the lake and check some stuff out. They also probably should talk about all the kissing, but Sam’s still not sure what he’s going to say.

The path up to rec room is a series of narrow steps hacked into the side of the hill. A railing made out of skinny tree branches nailed together runs alongside it. Sam takes them two at a time until he catches up to guy half way up the steps. It’s one of the kids from the kitchen trying to carry three watermelons at the same time. The top watermelon wobbles precariously and Sam grabs it from him. 

He can hear the music before he can see the cabin. When he shoves the door open with his hip, he’s almost knocked over by the smoke and the deep thumping of the music. The sweet smell of pot seeps into the night and the bass takes up residence in Sam’s stomach. He searches the crowd and finds Dean grinding up against a gorgeous black girl with dreadlocks down below her shoulders. A skinny white boy comes up behind him and grabs Dean by the hips. Dean throws a smile over his shoulder and doesn’t miss a beat. He mouths down the column of the girl’s neck, while he reaches back and pulls the boy closer.

All the blood rushes to Sam’s cock so fast it almost hurts. 

Dean turns his head and sees him. “Sammy!” he yells. His smile flashes white through the smoke. He slinks away from his dance partners. They don’t seem to miss him too terribly, pressing against each other, erasing the space like Dean was never there. 

Dean eels his way through the crowd. “’Bout time. Thought you weren’t coming,” Dean says, throwing his arm around Sam. 

Dean is rubbing small circles into Sam’s neck and his fingers are hot spots against Sam’s neck. Sweat breaks out on Sam’s forehead. “I carried a watermelon,” Sam blurts out.

“Good for you, Samster.” Dean pulls him deeper into the crowd. An anonymous hand comes out, offering a joint. Dean takes it and takes a long drag without unhooking his arm from Sam’s neck. He holds it out to Sam, one eyebrow raised.

Sam sighs. Four seconds in Dean’s presence and things are already out his control. Why does he even try? And then hits him. Why _does_ he even try? Sam’s been fighting for control of his life for so long, he can’t remember not fighting. What is it he’s afraid of? Things getting out of hand? Things can’t possibly get more fucked up than they are now. He always does his research and knows all the facts and has a plan and a back up plan. He’s so tired of it. He’s tired of trying to do what’s right. Maybe it’s time to throw caution to the wind.

Dean’s looking at him, a challenge in his eyes. “C’mon. I won’t tell. Promise. What happens at camp, stays at camp.” Sam doesn’t miss the way Dean’s eyes track down his body and back up; the way he bites his bottom lip. And, oh, it is so on. He takes the joint from Dean’s hand. Before he can inhale, a manicured hand reaches around his arm plucks it from between his fingers. 

“Is this a private party or can anyone join?” Sharon slides her other arm around Sam’s waist.

Dean runs his tongue over his teeth, tilts his head and looks at Sam. “I don’t know. Sam? Is this a private party?”

Sam doesn’t just throw caution to the wind, he hurls it into into the eye the hurricane, and while he’s at it, tosses prudence and good sense and basically all higher brain functions over the side as well. He grabs Sharon’s hand, drags it up to his mouth, and takes a long drag, tongue flicking against the web of Sharon’s fingers. Dean’s eyes go dark.

“Party of three then,” Sharon laughs huskily. He hand slides down Sam’s side, coming to rest on his hip. “Do you want to move this party somewhere a little more private?” she asks, taking her hand back.

“Yeah,” Dean answers, staring straight at Sam. “Let’s go.”

Sam is one sick puppy. He knows he should walk away. But he won’t. He’ll take whatever Dean offers. Always. He knows himself. He’s selfish. If Dean doesn’t offer enough, Sam will ask. And Dean will give it because that’s what Dean does. Give himself away to people. To dad, to the people they save, but mostly to Sam. It’s going to kill them both one day, Sam knows. 

Sharon takes them both by the hand and maneuvers them through the crowd and down a hallway into a smaller room with some couches and an old television. It’s dark, the only illumination the glow from the porch light filtering through the miniblinds.

Dean makes his way over to the biggest and ugliest plaid couch. Sharon raises Sam’s arm and leads him through a twirling dance step, backing him on to the couch next to Dean. She drops gracefully down on his other side.

You can add this to this list of things that obviously aren’t going to go the way Sam thought they would. He assumed Sharon would be in the middle. He catches the look Dean and Sharon share around his body. “Yeah. Okay,” he answers in response to the question hanging in the room.

Dean crowds up next to Sam, puts the joint up to his lips and inhales. “Breathe in when I breathe out, okay?” he asks, voice tight.

Sam nods.

Dean leans in and opens his mouth. Sam is mesmerized by his lips. _God, Dean has a gorgeous mouth._

“Open,” Dean forces through clenched teeth. 

Sam opens and Dean presses their mouths together. Sam can’t tell if the smoke or Dean’s lips are hotter.

Sam spreads his arms out across the back of the sofa, reaching for both of their necks. Dean’s stubble is rough against Sam’s fingertips and Sharon’s hair feels like silk as he lifts it gently off her neck. The contrast is mesmerizing.

The joint gets passed over Sam’s head and it takes him a while to realize that they won’t let him hold the joint. They just keep alternating shotgunning him until he only has to turn his head to either side to find a warm, willing mouth pressed against his.

Only the smoke wrapping him in soft bands of lassitude keep him from spontaneously combusting.

He’s pretty sure the joint is long gone, burned down to a tiny roach, but he’s still turning his head, searching for the taste and feel of lips on his. And if his head turns more and more towards Dean, well, it’s just easier to reach that direction and Dean’s head is more on a level with his.

Dean’s tongue flicks across his lips and Sam’s mouth opens on a gasp. He feels Dean’s teeth on his bottom lip at the same time the Sharon sucks a mark onto his neck. His small cry is swallowed by Dean’s mouth. And Sam turns into Dean’s heat. Hand fisting into Dean’s shirt to hold him. 

Sam feels reckless and wild. Maybe this will make it easier for Dean to let him go. Make Dean hate him. Or maybe it will make it worse. Sam doesn’t know. He can’t know. He can’t care right now. He just can’t.

Sharon turns him by the shoulders until his back is against her chest, her legs on either side of his body. “Eighteen, right?” she whispers.

Dean pulls Sam’s leg up onto the couch so that he is sitting between them. Holding on to Sam’s thigh, he leans up over him. “Yeah,” he answers for Sam. “Little brother is all grown up.”

Sam’s eyes close as he groans. _Oh, fuck._ The fact that Dean’s not even trying to pretend they’re not brothers makes lust burn like acid in his veins. He closes his eyes and his head falls back against Sharon’s shoulder. 

Sharon slides her hand over Sam’s straining erection and he thrusts against it involuntarily. Dean presses down on his hipbones, holding him in place. Dean’s mouth is on his again and it’s _nothing_ like either time before. This is filthy. Sam can taste the smoke on his tongue and his mouth is dry like the desert. Dean’s fingers are leaving bruises on his skin, and all he can think of is getting his mouth around Dean’s dick. This so was never supposed to happen.

“Dean,” he groans, not sure what he’s asking for. Sharon bites down on the tendon under his jaw, and her lips are soft and wet. Her hair brushes against Sam’s face and she smells so good. He can feel her breasts pressed up against his back; his hand grips her thigh, clenching releasing on the soft skin and hard dancer’s muscles. She presses hard against his dick again and he yells. “Oh god. Fuck.” He’s so high and so close to the edge. “Oh god. Dean, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t...”

Whatever Sam thinks he shouldn’t do is swallowed by Dean’s mouth as he leans in and seals their lips together again. He’s miraculously lit another joint and he pushes the hot smoke directly into Sam’s lungs.

“It’s okay, Sammy,” Dean says as he pulls away. He looks down at Sam’s lap, where Sharon’s hand rubs up and down. He licks his lips at the huge tent and wet spot forming under her hand. “It is good? Does it feel good?”

All Sam can do it moan and lay his head back against Sharon. It weighs a thousand pounds, too much for his neck to support. 

Dean inhales another lungful of smoke, this time reaching over for Sharon. She sucks the smoke from his lungs. They’re gorgeous together. Sam turns his head to kiss up her neck and she reaches up, holding him against her even as she keeps licking and kissing Dean. Sam is sliding his hand behind his back, further up her thigh, when Dean leans over Sam, grabs the arm of the couch behind Sharon and grinds down. 

Sam’s eyes roll back in his head, and he tries to reach for Dean, tries to grab his ass and pull him tighter against him. But Sharon twists his arm even further back, pulls his hand tight between her legs and traps it between her thighs. She pins his other arm across the back of the couch.

“Dean,” he begs. He hears Dean’s whisky laugh. “A little bit eager, baby boy?” He rolls his hips slowly, so slowly, and Sam is going to kill him if he has any brain cells left after this. “Dean, please. God.”

Sharon shifts behind him and his fingers press up against her. She so wet, the material between her legs soaked. Sam twists a little, works his fingers under the elastic of the leg. “Jesus,” she curses roughly as Sam’s fingertips slide through her slickness. She sinks lower down the couch, driving Sam’s fingers deeper inside. “Holy...yeah.” Sam isn’t going to be the only one falling apart here. 

Dean pulls back from tormenting Sam to follow his arm down to where it disappears behind his back. He looks back at Sam with a blinding grin. “Nice move, Sammy.” 

He sounds exactly the way he does when Sam manages to take him down while they’re sparring and that almost makes Sam loose it right then. 

“Does it feel good, baby?” he asks Sharon. “I bet those long fingers feel nice.” He grabs her gently behind her knees, pulling her slowly down the couch. 

Sam feels his fingers slide further up into her. Dean is fucking her onto Sam’s hand at the same time he’s grinding his dick into Sam, and Sam’s heart is going to explode with how hard the blood is pounding through his body.

Sam wants to say so many thing. _Touch me, suck me, kiss me again_ , but what comes out is a ragged moan and “Jesus Christ if someone doesn’t touch my dick soon, I’m going to kill you both.”

Sharon laughs breathlessly, her hips rolling against Sam. She just dripping down Sam’s wrist now and her fingers bite deep into his arms. Dean puts his mouth back on Sam’s neck, biting and nipping. “That’s my boy,” he says into Sam’s skin. 

Finally, Dean kneels back and unbuttons Sam’s jeans, one button at a time. They both hold their breath as Dean peels back the denim. “Jesus,” he exhales reverently. “You’re a big boy, Sammy.” He pulls the soaked boxers carefully over the head. Sam whines as the cool air hits the oversensitive, overheated skin.

Sam has to touch Dean and he pries his hand from its death-grip on the back of the couch and clamps onto Dean’s shoulder.

“Sh, shh, It’s okay, I got you.” Dean says, shushing him absently even though Sam isn’t making any sound. He can’t. He can’t drag any air into his lungs. All he can do is think _Dean, Dean, Dean_ “I know what you need,” Dean says, and he covers Sam’s cock with his broad palm, pressing it against his stomach.

Sam sucks oxygen with a gasp. “Dean!” he shouts. Sharon is panting in his ear, her hips slamming against his hand. He vaguely registers the pain in his wrist but it’s so far off it might as well be happening to someone else.

He can feel his balls tightening up, feel his orgasm slamming towards him. Dean slides his hand around Sam’s cock, pulling it away from his body as he slides his hand down. Sam grunts and thrusts up into the circle of Dean’s fingers and hot liquid pulses from him, slicking the space between them. He’s so close.

Sam’s hand clenches inside Sharon, fingers tightening and pressing up hard against just the right spot. She stiffens behind him and comes with a soft litany of _ah, ah, ah_ , her muscles tightening around Sam’s fingers at the same time Dean’s fingers tighten around Sam. It’s too much. Sam can’t hold it back. No time to warn Dean, but from the way Dean’s smiling, he knows.

Sam feels his dick swell in Dean’s hand and Dean looks up and meets his eyes. He is so goddamn beautiful and strong and brave and loving. How could anyone blame Sam for falling in love? “Dean,” he breathes, and then he’s coming hard and fast, pumping out stream after stream over Dean’s hand and up on to his stomach and chest.

He falls back against Sharon’s chest, eyes closed. They’re both panting and Sharon’s running her hands soothingly up and down his arms. “Fuck,” she says. Sam laughs in agreement.

He feels Dean’s hands trembling against the tops of this thighs. He forces his eyes open. Dean is staring at them, eyes dark with lust. His dick is so hard beneath his jeans that Sam winces with how uncomfortable it must be. Dean licks his lips. “You’re both so fucking beautiful,” he whisper, chest heaving with arousal.

Sam chuckles wearily as he pulls his leg out from behind Dean. “Have you seen yourself lately?” he asks, twisting his head back to give Sharon a long kiss. He hears Dean whine and he smiles against her mouth.

One last press of his lips and he slides bonelessly to the floor. Dean is wide-eyed as Sam grabs his knees, pulls him to the edge of the couch and arranges them until he’s kneeling between Dean’s spread legs, a hand on either knee to hold him open. 

“Fuck,” Dean curses. “Fuck. God, Sammy.”

Sam shoots a look at Sharon and she crawls over on her knees. She unbuttons Dean’s jeans with one hand as she pulls his head back for a kiss with the other.

Sam reaches up and pulls Dean out of his jeans. Sharon pulls away from Dean and sits next to him on the couch. “This I have to see,” she says. Her hand is already back under her skirt and Sam and Dean both take a second to watch it disappear between her legs. She hisses in pleasure as she touches herself and Dean groans like he’s dying. “Christ.”

Sam wants to take his time, wants to licks and touch and just worship Dean’s dick. It’s just as gorgeous as he knew it would be. But he knows it would be cruel to Dean to drag this out anymore. There’ll be time for that later. He leans forward and slides his mouth over the head of Dean’s hard cock.

“Fuck,” Dean yells. His hips thrust up, but Sam’s ready for it and he just rides the movement. He revels in the velvet over steel feel of a cock on his tongue, the stretch at the sides of his mouth, and the bitter salty taste. He’s always loved this, but it’s a million times better knowing it’s Dean he’s taking care of. He moans around Dean’s dick and Dean curses. He looks up to see Dean with one arm thrown over his head, clenching the back of the couch. His other hand hovers by Sam’s head, not sure where to rest.

Sam slide slowly off with a pop, slim threads of saliva and come obscenely bridging the space between his mouth and Dean’s dick. He rests the hard cock on his bottom lip and licks over the head. He tilts his head, looking up at Dean through his eyelashes. “Do it,” he growls.

Dean shudder and groans, grabs Sam’s head and thrusts his dick back into Sam’s mouth. Next to him, Sharon comes with a guttural cry.

Dean lets go of the couch and grabs Sam’s head with both hands, closing them over Sam’s ears. Sam hears the echo of his and Dean’s blood pounding in his skull. Dean thrusts half a dozen more times before he’s cursing, in English, in Latin, in Greek, and shooting over and over into Sam’s mouth.

Sam swallows every drop and reluctantly lets Dean’s dick slip out of his mouth when Dean starts to whine and twitch. He lays his head against Dean’s thigh and jerks himself to a second orgasm. It takes no time at all.

The room is quiet except for their harsh breathing and the thump of the distant bass.

“Well, holy shit, boys,” Sharon says into the silence. “Thank you. Just...thank you.” She smiles.

Sam looks up from where he kneels between Dean’s legs. “You’re not,” he starts, not sure how to go on. “It doesn’t bother you that we’re, you know, brothers?”

Sharon reaches blindly over the arm of the couch, grasping randomly until she finds the remains of the the last joint. She jerks her chin at Dean, who pulls his jeans up enough to fish the lighter out of his pocket. Sam turns and sit on the floor between Dean’s legs, back to the couch. Sharon lights the joint and inhales deeply. Dean runs his fingers over and over through Sam’s hair, and Sam thinks he could sit like that forever. 

“I don’t care if you don’t care,” Sharon says, voice tight. She exhales and hands the joint to Dean. “Actually kind of makes it hotter.” She watches as Dean tags a drag and hands it back down to Sam. “Don’t tell me you’ve never slept with sisters, Dean Winchester.”

Sam laughs, chokes on the smoke, and coughs until tears roll down his cheeks. Dean shakes Sam’s head back and forth by the hair. Sam pounds his chest and gives a small cough. “She’s got you there, Dean.”

“I rest my case,” Sharon says, settling back against the arm of the chair.

Sam hooks an arm over Dean’s knee. “I did it with a brother and a sister once.”

Now it’s Dean’s turn to sputter. “What? And you never told me?”

“There’s a lot I never told you.”

Dean snorts. “Apparently. Too bad. If you _had_ told me you were an Olympic-level cocksucker, we would have done this a _lot_ sooner. And don’t think you won’t be telling me where you acquired that particular skill-set.”

Sam punches him in the leg and Dean laughs. Maybe they’ll be okay, Sam thinks. Maybe this will all work out okay. And maybe Dean will be named the next Pope. Whatever, they’re okay for now, and Sam will take what comfort he can get, where and when he can get it. Dean, and a lifetime growing up on the road, had taught him that early on.

They sit in comfortable silence for a long stretch, dozing occasionally, and listening to the sounds of the party. Dean finally shakes Sam’s shoulder, pulling him out of something that wasn’t quite a dream and wasn’t quite a memory. “Hey, do we have stuff to do tonight?”

Sam groans and sits up. “Yeah. There’s some stuff we should check out.” He leans heavily on Dean’s legs as he pulls himself up. “Down by the lake.”

Sharon stands up, smooths her dress back down. She eyes Dean suspiciously. “You’re not really here to work, are you?”

Sam and Dean exchange a look. Dean tilts his head in silent question. Sam shrugs in a silent _why not_. Ghost hunting seems like a small secret to share compared to incest.

“We’re here to work,” Dean answers. “Just not quite the way you’d think.”

They walk to the door. “So the camp? It’s really haunted?”

“Yeah,” Sam says simply. “But it seems to be tied to the lake. Ghost can’t usually go very far from whatever’s tying them here.”

“Huh.” Sharon digests that. “So you’re, like, Ghostbusters or something?”

“Or something,” Dean answers. “And my car is way cooler.”

Sharon stops walking. “Well, shit boys. You think you can stop it?”

“Yeah, we can,” Dean says firmly. “That’s what we do.”

 _Yeah, we can,_ Sam thinks. Because they’re Winchesters and that’s what they do.


	5. Chapter 5

They walk back to their cabin, the fresh air washing away the last of the buzz. Their bodies bump and sway against each other, but they don’t talk, and, except for the time Sam pushes Dean against the nearest tree and tries to suck his soul out through his mouth, they keep their hands to themselves.

Dean unlocks the trunk of the Impala and purses his lips as he surveys the contents. Shotguns and salt for sure. Shovel? Lighter fluid and a lighter. He exhales heavily as he realizes that he had no idea what he is doing. And isn’t that a perfect metaphor. He turns around, resting his ass on the open lip of the trunk.

“I have no idea what we’re doing,” he admits. 

Sam barks a laughs from where he stands, leaning against the Impala. “Join the crowd, man.” His smile is wide and genuine though, and Dean wants to lick his dimples and then slide down and get his lips around his baby brother’s cock. He does neither, just sighs and leans his head back, knocking it softly against the open trunk. “So, do we have any ideas where she might be besides the general lake area?” His eyes are closed and he thinks he could fall asleep like this.

“Yeah, I think I know where she is.” 

Dean’s eyes fly open. He narrows his eyes at Sam. “Really? Come to you in a dream? Talking to the fish, Aquaman?”

Sam just smirks. “Obviously she’s near the raft, right? That’s where all the attacks happen.”

“And?” Dean ask, pushing up off the trunk.

“Well, I think her body is actually in the raft. In one of the drums they used to make it float. There’s one corner that’s bothered me since the first day. It sits much lower in the water than the other three.”

Dean raises one eyebrows, frowns. “Could be. Maybe.”

Sam stands up and pushes his hands into the pockets of hoodie. “The one sister, Liza, they found her body in a barrel. She’d been stabbed and, and, well, worse. And shoved into it. They never found the other sister’s body. Emily.”

Dean rummages around in the trunk, pulls out an ax and a crowbar. “It not an easy hiding spot, Sam. What, this guy just, I don’t know, kills them, stuffs them in barrels and then builds a raft?”

Sam shakes his head. “He’d had the girls for months before anybody reported them missing. It was almost a year before they found Liza’s body.”

Dean’s can feel his lips curling back from his teeth in a snarl. Fucking bastard. “People are sick fucks, Sam. I hate that we have to be hunting, you know, the ghost of this innocent girl who should be resting in peace with her sister. Sometimes I wish we could just hunt down the assholes who do shit like this.” He gives the trunk one last quick check for anything that looks like it might be helpful, maybe a snorkel or swim fins, then closes it gently to reveal Sam staring at him all wide-eyed. “What?”

“You’ve never said anything like that before.” Sam blinks at him.

“Like what?”

Sam looks between Dean’s face and the shotgun hanging loosely from his hand and back again. “Like you wanted to hunt people.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “I’m not going to start going all vigilante, dude. I’m not a psycho. It’s just...” He tosses Sam the shotgun and hoists the duffle over his shoulder, motions for Sam to follow him with the jerk of chin down the trail. 

“It’s just,” he continues as they walk carefully down the moonlit path. “It must feel good to, you know, just stop some dick from murdering someone, rather than having to put down some poor dead guy who actually has a pretty good reason to be pissed.”

He doesn’t feel Sam’s presence next to him anymore, so he stops and looks back. Sam’s stopped a few feet down the path, staring at him with this look in his eye that Dean can’t place right away. It’s kind of the way Sam used to look at their dad years ago, before all the crap between them started. Kind of like the way he used to look at Dean when he was little. It makes Dean feel good and uncomfortable at the same time. He doesn’t like Sammy putting him on some pedestal. He remembers how hard it hurt both of them when he fell off of it.

Sam opens his mouth and Dean holds up a hand to stop him. “Dude.” He shakes his head, he can’t look at Sam right now. “Just, let’s go stop this chick from killing anymore people, okay?”

Sam smiles at him, teeth gleaming, and jogs the few steps to catch up to Dean. He grabs the shovel from Dean’s hand and keeps going. “Hey!” Dean calls as he passes. Sam just laughs.

Dean watches him disappear around a bend in the trail. He follows more slowly, the sounds and shadows of the night swirling like the thoughts in his head. He remembers the way Sam said his name when he came, thinks about two sisters separated and trapped together at the same time, and the blackness of a future without Sam in it. He wants to run to catch up with Sam, but the darkness of the unfamiliar path and the weight of the gear bag keeps him at slow slog. It takes him a few seconds to register the drop in temperature, but when he does, he drops the bag, unslings the shotgun from his shoulder and yells for his brother. “Sam!”

The ghost flickers in and out in front of him but doesn’t come any closer, doesn’t move at all. It’s a teenaged girl, in the rags of a dress from thirty years ago. Dean has never been able to figure out why the ghosts appear wearing what they do - if it was what they were killed in, or buried in - or why they even appear clothed at all. He aims the gun at her, but doesn’t pull the trigger. She isn’t threatening him. She’s just staring at him with this expression - it looks a lot like the way Sam was looking at him just now. “Sammy!” he yells again. 

The ghost flickers closer and Dean raises the gun a fraction. She stops. “So lonely,” she says. Dean twitches at the sensation that isn’t quite sound. It’s like cold fingers brushing over his ears. “Save her,” she begs. “Save my sister.” 

He hears Sam’s footsteps pounding up the path as the ghost disappears. 

“Ghost?” Sam asks, shotgun at the ready.

“Yeah,” Dean nods. “She said ‘save my sister.’”

Sam nods and gives half shrug. There’s a spark when their eyes meet. “Let’s do it then,” he says.

Dean already thinks lakes at night are creepy, all that dark water you can’t see through. It’s not right. Lakes that you know for sure are haunted? Extra creepy. The mist coming off the surface of this lake and the complete lack of any of the normal nighttime forest sounds just ramps up the creepiness factor by a hundred.

They stand at the water’s edge and look out at the raft. Dean keeps the shotgun up. “So, what do you think?” he asks Sam. “I don’t suppose there’s a rope we can just haul it in with.”

Sam shakes his head. “It’s chained to some kind of anchor out there. Chain hooks onto the side.”

Dean squints as if he can see the connection from here. “Think we can just pry the chain loose from the wood.”

Sam nods. “Yeah, I think so. Then what do you think? Drag it into shore?”

Not an ideal situation from a not wanting to get drowned by a ghost point of view, but it’s the only option Dean can see. “Yeah.” He sighs. “This sucks.” Sam nods silently in agreement.

It’s not the hardest job they’ve done, but it’s less than optimal. It’s not particularly stealthy for one. The canoes would be quieter, but they need the power, so the motorboat it is. Every sound echoes over the water. Dean’s sure they can hear the engine over the music up at the staff cabin. The buoys and chains creak and clang. And it’s cold and wet.   
Dean guides the boat while Sam crouches in the front, shotgun and eyes focused on the dock.

The worse thing is the tension. Dean keeps waiting for the second sister to come reaching out of the water and drag him or Sam to their death. He swears he can feel a chill on the back of his neck from the sister on the beach, but he refuses to turn around and check. Sam looks back, and the expression on his face tells Dean all he needs to know.

They tie off at the dock. Dean kneels quickly to pry the chain off the dock while Sam stands over him, shotgun at the ready. He hears Sam’s gasp and spares a quick glance at the water. Emily’s dark face and cloudy eyes stare up at him, hand reaching out. A blast from the shotgun rains salt over her and sends her scattering long enough for Dean to give one last desperate wrench of the screwdriver and the hook flies free.

The dock lurches and Sam stumbles against Dean. Dean flings an arm out to stop him and Sam hands land heavily on Dean’s shoulders. “Let’s go,” Dean urges. They quickly tie a rope to the end of the dock across from the boat and jump in. Sam ties off the other end of the rope to one of the bench seats and nods over his shoulder for Dean to go.

The rope plays out and yanks against the raft with a sharp jerk, lifting the front of the boat out of the water. Dean grits his teeth and pushes the engine harder. On the shore, Liza’s ghost flickers in and out of sight, and it plays on every nerve Dean has. They cross the short distance, the raft alternating between pulling against the end of the rope and surging forward into the boat. It’s teeth-rattling and nerve-wracking.

Soon enough the front end of the dock hits the lake bed, yanking the boat to a halt. Sam turns and looks at Dean. “Up and over?” 

Dean nods and jumps out of the boat, into the lake water up to his thighs. “Cover me,” he calls as he wades to the back of the raft. 

Sam steps into the lake, one hand on the boat, one hand bracing the shotgun against his shoulder.

Behind the floating dock, the water is deeper, up to Dean’s waist. The dock floats up around his shoulders. The blue plastic drum Dean is fairly sure contains the other sister’s remains is way too close to his face for comfort. He braces his hands on the top of the raft, pushes against it to check the buoyancy. It dips down and back up easily enough. “Okay, Sam. On three. One. Two. Three.” He jumps up, putting all the weight he can against the top of the raft. The fronts surges upwards just as a hand grabs him around the neck and drags him backwards under the water. He has time to shout for Sam before he goes under.

Then it’s nothing but darkness and lack of oxygen. Dean wrenches away from the ghost, his face breaking the surface, and hears Sam yelling for him. He can’t answer, only struggle for air as she pulls him back under. His feet kick against the bottom of the raft as he twists and turns trying to break her grip. 

Sam’s huge hand grabs his head and pulls it free of the water as he swings the iron crowbar way too close to Dean’s face.

He staggers upright, grasping on to Sam. Sam, who stands like a pillar of stone in the water, aiming his shotgun at nothing. Dean gasps and turns to the shore. “We’re trying to _help_ you!” Dean yells to the ghost on the shore. “Help us!”

The water is freezing, frost crawling across the surface. Liza’s ghost flickers in and out frantically. Dean sees her arms reaching out. There’s the blast of Sam’s shotgun and a scrape of salt across Dean’s cheek. Dean grabs the crowbar, eyes straining to see despite the full moon, as Sam reloads.

“Emily! Stop!” The girl’s words echoes like a gunshot across the water, scratch across their brains like nails on a chalkboard.

Emily’s ghost, a pale shadow now, almost translucent, stares heartbroken at the shore. Dean and Sam take advantage of the moment’s peace and abandon any plan in favor of hacking at the ropes binding the barrel to the bottom of the dock.

Dean curses as he braces himself and just heaves the raft up. Something pops in his shoulder but Sam yanks the barrel out and shoves it to the shore. 

“Goddamn,” Dean swears, dropping the raft. A few huge dragging steps through the water get him closer to the boat and he grabs the gear bag out as he passes it. Sammy’s already rolling the barrel onto the beach.

As soon as the barrel touches the sand, the ghosts of the sisters run into each other, holding on like they’ll never let go. Dean pulls out the hand ax, no patience for the crowbar Sam is trying to pry the lid off with. “Just get out of the way, Sammy,” he barks. He swings the ax up and looks over at Sam out of long habit. Sam’s staring at the drum, t-shirt pulled up over his nose it mouth even though the both know full well that if that barrel is airtight, nothing’s going to stop that ungodly stench from making them both puke. Dean swings, praying that the liquid sloshing around inside it is just lake water.

A couple of swings and the brittle plastic cracks, spewing water, only water, thank goodness. Sam and Dean rip and pull at the opening, until the whole skeleton is revealed. Once her bones come spilling out, Emily drops to her ghostly knees. Her sister goes down with her, hands clamped around her arms from behind. Dean and Sam share a glance and Dean knows they’re both imaging themselves in that position.

Somebody is running down the footpath. Two people, sounds like. _Just great_ , Dean thinks. Just what they need. An audience.

The skeleton is bent and twisted around itself, knees pulled up to her chest, hands wrapped around the knees. It looks so small. There’s no clothing, and Dean just knows she was stuffed in their naked. He prays fervently that she was already dead when she was stuffed into her plastic coffin.

There’s no rush, now, the sisters have stopped attacking and are just standing straight, arms around each other’s waists, staring at Emily’s remains. Dean sees the beam of a flashlight spill across the sand just before Mr. Weisman and Sharon run out from the tree-lined path. “Stop,” he yells across the sand, holding out his hand as if he can keep everybody, dead or alive, from moving.

It seems to work. Weisman and Sharon stop and the ghost flicker closer to the path, but don’t attack yet. “It’s okay,” Dean says, as Sam kneels down to look more closely at the tiny sad skeleton. “We’re going to take care of her, okay?” That last part is addressed to the ghostly sisters. Emily looks up at her sister, but the sister never takes her eyes off Dean and Sam.

Sam straightens up, something gold dangling from his hand. He holds it out for Dean to see. It’s a necklace. A simple gold chain and a thin gold-plated heart with ‘Liza’ engraved on it. It’s nothing much, a cheap necklace from some drugstore somewhere, but it must be what’s keeping Liza tied to this plane and to her sister. Sam holds it out to the sisters, and Liza nods. She reaches up and clutches something at her chest. Dean assumes it’s a matching necklace. Something digs into his palm and he realizes he had grabbed his amulet and was clenching his hand hard around it.

He turns his head to look at Sam. “We good? We should do this.”

Sam nods, then looks up at the sisters.. “We’re going to help you rest, okay? We’ll take care of everything.”

Up the beach, Sharon stands with both hands over her mouth, eyes wide, staring at Sam and Dean. Weisman’s got his arm around her waist and his eyes flick back and forth between girls on the sand and the boys near the lake.

Dean digs through the gear bag, pulling out the lighter fluid. It seems wrong, somehow, just to burn her up like this. While she watches. She needs more. Some kind of hunter’s funeral for this sad lost murdered girl and the sister who loves her. He spreads his hands, looking around for inspiration from the night. “Sam?” When Sam looks at him, Dean shrugs helplessly. “Dude, it just seems rude to just burn her like this.”

Sam looks as stricken as Dean feels. This whole thing is just sad, tragedy all around. The only bad guy is the asshole who killed these poor girls. And he’s dead. At least Dean hopes he is. “He’s dead, right?” he asks Sam.

Sam’s smile is not a nice one. “Yeah. He’s dead. Got beat to death in jail about six months after he went away.” 

Dean nods his approval. “Do they know?” he jerks his chin at the girls.

Sam turns back to the girls. “You know he’s dead, right? The guys who did this to you, he was arrested and they killed him in jail. The other inmates. When they found out who he was.”

 _Good. Good._

The words that aren’t words blow cold against Dean’s skin. He can tell by the way the other’s flinch that they feel it too. Along with a sense of vengeance and anger. Dean has no idea where ghosts go after the leave this plane, but kind of hopes the girls meet up with their murderer-slash-father and torment him for a good long time.

Dean holds up the light fluid and the lighter. He thumbs the wheel and a flame flickers to life. He looks towards the girls. “Okay?” 

They nod. 

“Okay.” He pours the accelerant all over the damp bones, the scent sharp in the damp night air. Sammy dumps the salt. This has to go good the first time. He pulls Sam back with an arm across his chest, and they both take a few steps away from the sad pile of bones. The silver of the lighter catches the moonlight as Dean tosses it into the bones. Flames flare to life with a whoomp of displaced air. Sam tosses the necklace into the fire. Dean traces its path, hand clutched around his amulet again.

A strong winds blows from the lake, rustling the trees, and scattering sparks and firelight across the six of them as they watch in silence as the bones burn. The girls last longer than Dean has ever seen before. Fading slowly, arms around each other, as the fire burns down. He hears a quiet _Thank you_ as they go.

Sam and Dean watch until the end, making sure the fire is out and everything is done. Dean waves the EMF meter around just to be sure. Nothing. There are burnt bones now, and the melted remains of a cheap necklace. There’s always so much left. Sometimes Dean thinks the ritual of salting and burning carries as much weight as the physical reactions, but he’s seen too much to under appreciate the value of ritual.

They gather their stuff, leaving the beached dock and boat for someone else to deal with. They’re dead tired, beat up, wet, and, frankly, pretty bummed out. Dean just wants to get out of these clothes and into bed with Sam. Wants to feel him alive and warm next to him for as long as he can.

When it looks like Sam and Dean might walk right past them, Mr. Weisman, reaches out and gently touches them on the arm. He’s shaking his head, mouth opening and closing. “Boys,” he says, then stops. “Thank you. I can’t...” He inhales deeply. “I never did see what your father did last time. I owe all of you so much.”

Dean slaps a hand heavily on Weisman’s back, give him a fake smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t sweat it. It’s what we do.” He knows he sounds cold, and Weisman is a good guy, he deserves more. Dean will give him more. Tomorrow. Tomorrow afternoon. Dean is going to sleep all morning.

Sam looks back over his shoulder. “We’ll call someone to take care of the body, alright? Make it official. Can you take care of the boat and the dock? Keep people away until we make it go away?”

Weisman nods. Dean can see him already making plans in his head for how to deal with it.

Sharon shifts and sighs. Dean had almost forgotten she was there. He remembers her mouth on his, her face over Sammy’s shoulder. _Jesus, was that only a couple of hours ago?_ What a night.

Sam’s hugging her, her face pressed against his shoulder. She’s wearing sweatpants and t-shirt and looks about ten years younger. She pushes away from Sam, tears in shiny tracks down her cheeks. “Those girls, the....ghosts.” She laughs harshly in disbelief. “They were those sisters, right? The one’s Frankie was talking about?”

Sam nods. “Yeah.”

Sharon looks between Dean and Sam. “And they killed those kids?”

Dean and Sam exchange glances over Sharon’s head, working out without words who gets to explain things to her. Sam is it this time. He sighs and Dean feels for him. It’s so much easier when no one seems them, when they do their work in the dark, unnoticed like they are meant to. Easier for them, for the victims, for the civilians who don’t have to have their world rocked.

Wiesman pulls him aside as Sam explains about angry spirits, and reassures Sharon that the family will have some closure.

“You okay, Dean?” Mr. Weisman asks.

Dean can tell the guys really cares, so he sags a little. “Yeah. Just tired. And it’s tough sometimes, you know? They were just kids.”

Mr. Weisman nods, running his hand through his thinning hair. “Yeah. Nasty business all around. I remember the case. Sick bastard. Glad he’s dead.”

“Yeah.”

Mr. Weisman puts his hands on Dean’s shoulder, turning him from side to side, checking for injuries. Dean knows the routine well, but it’s not usually strangers caring about him. Feels not too bad actually. “You sure you’re okay?” Weisman asks. “Not hurt?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing Sam can’t handle.” He gently pulls the older man’s hand off his shoulder. “Really, I just need some sleep.”

Mr. Weisman. “Of course, of course. And the jobs are yours, you know, if you want them. Hell, just hang around the rest of the summer and I’ll pay you for that.”

“Sounds perfect,” Dean says. “We’ll talk tomorrow, okay?”

“Thanks again.” He turns to look at Sharon. “Sharon, let the boy sleep, okay? Help me take care of this?” He gestures at the boat and the raft.

Sharon turns her head but stays wrapped in the comfort of Sam’s arms. Dean’s briefly jealous. “Okay.” She looks up at Sammy. “You were amazing,” she says, and pulls his head down to give him a brief but heartfelt kiss. Now Dean is really jealous of both of them.

“Hey, what about me? I’m the one who got half-drowned.” 

Sharon laughs, an out of place sound here, and wriggles out of Sam’s hold. She walks over to Dean, Sam close behind. She presses up against him, not caring about his wet clothes. “My hero,” she says, stretching up to kiss him deeply. Dean steadies her with a hand between her shoulderblades. 

A cough from Weisman breaks it up. Sam is looking at Dean with one eyebrow quirked up and a wry twist to his mouth. Dean smiles at him. “C’mon, Sammy. Let’s go to bed.” He hugs Sharon briefly. Sam drops a kiss on her temple as they pass, then slings an arm across Dean’s shoulders as they walk slowly back up to the cabin.


	6. Chapter 6

Dean’s arm presses against Sam’s as they lay on their backs on the no-longer-haunted raft. It’s the end of August and all Dean has to show for a summer at the lake is more freckles and some peeling skin. Sam, of course, is tanned a warm, golden brown that just begs to be licked. Dean’s more than happy to oblige. And seriously happy to do it until Sam is actually begging. He’d begged so prettily this morning. 

_Jesus, Dean. Touch me, you fucker,_ he’d pleaded, hands clenched in the scratchy sheets. Dean hadn’t touched him, not where he’d wanted it, and kept not touching him until Sam had snapped. Dean had sheet burn on his knees from when Sam had flipped him over and rutted against his ass until they both came hard, both thinking about when rubbing off on each other wouldn’t be enough. He didn’t know about Sam, but that time was fast approaching for Dean.

Dean exhales sharply, trying to shift his hips surreptitiously and will his dick to go back to sleep.

Sam rolls over onto his side and braces his head on his bent arm. He slides his leg slowly against Dean’s. “Whatcha thinkin’ about?” The late-afternoon sunlight makes a halo of his shaggy brown hair. He bites his bottom lip as his eyes travel down Dean’s body to lock onto his crotch.

“Algebra,” Dean answers, aiming for bored and missing it by a mile.

“Uh-huh,” Sam laughs, rolling a little more into Dean. 

Normally they wouldn’t be this blatant in public, wouldn’t lay so close together, wouldn’t touch. Wouldn’t look at each other like this. But they both feel time slipping away, faster and faster. Each day the sun sinks on a sweltering dog day of summer and each evening brings with it a breath of fall. Sumac and witch hazel are beginning to flash red and yellow from the depths of the woods.

It’s the last weekend of camp. Most of the families have left already. John will be back in tomorrow, and Dean just knows it’s going to be bad. Sam hasn’t told him anything definite yet, but Dean sees it in the distance in his eyes and the tension in his shoulders whenever Dean mentions anything further in the future than the next meal. So he doesn’t push. He keeps it light, plays the cocky clown, and gets his hands and mouth on Sam as often as he can. And if a little part of his mind clings to the hope that he will be enough to hold Sam, well who can blame him?

Sam’s hand dragging along his thigh pulls his thoughts off that dark path. “Algebra?”

Sam’s eyes are locked on Dean’s lips. His eyes darken as Dean’s tongue darts out to lick them. His hand lifts and Dean can tell he’s a second away from pulling Dean hard against his body. Dean shifts away from Sam with a smile. “Yeah. Want to go back to the cabin and help me study?”  
“It’s almost time for the party.” Sam laughs.

Dean sits up, knees drawn up to hide his growing erection. “I am kind of hungry.”

“Shocking.” Sam sits up next to Dean. Their backs are to the beach as they look out over the water. They can hear a few of the other staff laughing and talking behind then. There’s not much work left to do, empty cabins are winterized, equipment and art supplies stowed. Tonight, at the end of the year party, they’re going to eat the rest of the fresh food, finish up the open bottles of liquor, and then close up the kitchens. Dean sighs and leans against Sam.

In sync, as always, Sam reaches over and pulls Dean against him. “It’s been a good summer, right Dean?”

“The best, Sammy.”

Sam nods, fast, like a bobble-head. Dean doesn’t need to look at him to know Sam’s eyes will be soft and sad, bright with unshed tears. He tilts his head up to the sky and exhales. He can’t do this now. The urge to kiss Sam is strong, irresistible. “C’mon,” he says, tugging at Sam’s arm as he inches forward to the edge of the raft and slips into the water.

Sam follows him down, slipping into the water with a small splash. 

The dock blocks them from the view of people on the shore. There’s no-one in the water besides them, so he crowds Sam up against the dock. He grabs the bottom of the dock and treads water and presses his lips against Sam. Sam tastes like sunscreen and sweat. Dean licks into Sam’s mouth as Sam wraps his arms and legs around him, clinging like a barnacle. It takes all of Dean’s will to keep the _love you, love you_ from pushing out past his lips.

One last kiss and he pulls away. A few strong strokes take him away from Sam and he dives as deeply as he can from the surface. It’s colder a few feet below the surface, and when he opens his eyes, all he sees is murky darkness and his own air bubbles. He looks behind him but can’t see Sam at all. The water pushes against his ears, and all he hears is his own heartbeat.

Lungs aching, he pulls up towards the surface, and breaks free with a gasp. Sam is still in the water, arms stretched up against the deck, mouth turned down, eyes soft and distant. Dean swims over to him, dips his head down to grab a mouthful of water, and lifts his chin up, shooting a warm stream at Sam. “Ready for dinner?”

Sam flinches away and smacks the water with his hand, splashing Dean. “Idiot. Yeah. Let’s go.”

They swim together until it gets too shallow and then slog through the water to the beach. 

The few stragglers on the beach call out to them as they pass by, making sure they’ll be at dinner, at the party later. They make their promises but don’t slow down, toweling off as they walk.

 

Back at the cabin, they change quickly, not making eye contact. The bed is still wrecked from this morning, sheets crumpled and damp, blankets kicked to the floor. Dean’s palms twitch with wanting to touch Sam, but he knows if he does, he’ll never let Sam go. He might handcuff him, throw him in the back of the Impala and drive until they can’t be found. He might beg Sam to stay, or worse, beg him to take Dean with him when he goes. What if Dean does, and Sam says no? 

What if he says yes?

Dean puts on his best jeans and his newest black t-shirt. The silver ring glints on his finger and the amulet rests on his chest. Some of his youngest dance students made him friendship bracelets during arts and crafts, and the colored yarns hang softly off his wrist.

He looks over to where Sam is getting dressed. Weeks of swimming and tanning have strengthened Sam’s muscles, broadened his back and slimmed his hips even more. The white tank top he’s pulling on is tighter than that it had been at the beginning of the summer and the jeans looser. Dean glance traces the outline of Sam’s muscles, the press of his nipples through the thin material, and the cut of his hips down into his jeans.

“Lets go,” he says gruffly as Sam pulls a white-on-white patterned shirt over his tank and rolls the sleeves up to his elbows. Dean runs his tongue against the back of his teeth and wonders when watching Sam get dressed became as hot as watching him get undressed.

Sam nods. He can’t meet Dean’s eyes and his hands shake as he tries to screw the ends of his puka bead necklace together. That breaks Dean heart. He’s seen Sam stitch their father up at night in the moving car with hands steady as a rock. “Give me that,” he says, rolling his eyes, but taking the necklace gently from Sam. He has to reach up to get the necklace around Sam’s neck. They’d started the summer eye to eye, now he has to tilt up just the slightest to look Sam in the eye.

“There you go,” he says, slapping Sam on the back. “Pretty as a picture, Princess.”

Sam gives him a bitchface that lasts until Dean puts his hands on Sam’s chest and pushes him up against the door. “Look good enough to fucking eat, little brother,” Dean says, and watches the pupils of Sam’s eyes expand like a window opening. No sense in denying it. They’re both sick fucks, and reminds themselves that they’re brothers adds just the right amount of edge to this trainwreck in the making they’ve got going on here.

Dean’s got his hands around the back of Sam’s neck, thumbs caressing his jaw. Sam’s hands are wedged in Dean’s back pockets, squeezing and kneading as he pulls Dean tight against him. With a groan, Dean shifts his hips until they’re riding each other thighs. Dean pants against Sam’s open mouth at the borderline-painful drag and press of denim against his hard cock. They’re both hard. It seems like they’re both at least half-hard most of the time. Dean can barely think lately. He blames it on the sun, on the heat, or the dancing, but every time he’s with Sam, Sam has that same dopey look in his eyes, his movements sweet and slow as molasses as he reaches for Dean. They’re drunk with the sun, with the safety, with each other’s bodies, and the freedom of the summer.

And it’s all ending tomorrow.

With a groan, Dean pulls away from Sam’s sinful mouth. He tilts down, biting and sucking at the cords of Sam’s neck just to feel Sam shudder under his hands. “Fuck,” he whispers at the sweet whine that Sam makes. “Fuck,” he repeats, stepping back. He wipes his hand across his mouth, down his chin.

Sam just looks him, lips red and swollen, red bite mark still shiny with Dean’s spit on his neck. He slides his hands into his front pockets, stretching the denim even tighter across the not-insubstantial bulge, and cants his hips out at Dean. His eyes are heavy-lidded and dark. Dean wants to stand there and jerk off just looking at Sam, wants to sear that image into his brain. It’s Dean’s hands that are shaking now.

Footsteps outside their cabin and a pounding at the door makes them both startle. “Get a move on, Winchesters,” a voice calls from outside. “Last one there gets no s’mores.”

“Keep your pants on, Murray,” Dean yells, voice steadier than he feels. “And if there’s no chocolate waiting for me when I get there, I’m taking yours.”

“Whatever, dude,” Murray says through the door. “Don’t keep your adoring fans waiting. I saw Sharon.” He whistles low. “She’s looking good tonight.”

By unspoken agreement, they don’t touch while they wait for the footsteps to fade away. “Should we go?” Sam asks. Dean can’t tell what answer Sam is hoping for so he’s forced to guess. They should go. When do they ever get the chance to do things like this? A real party, with actual friends. Dean can’t remember the last time.

“Can’t keep a beautiful woman waiting, right Sammy?” He smiles, and Sam steps away from the door. He opens it and motions for Dean to go on through.

 

Two hours later and the party is in full swing. Dean’s been out back around the fire pit demonstrating his marshmallow toasting prowess and he hasn’t seen Sam in a while. He takes one perfectly browned blob of sugar off the end of his stick and hands it to the nearest person. “Thanks, man,” the guy answers. Dean smiles. He knows that voice.

“Hey, Dallas,” he says, holding his hand out for a fist bump. “When did you get here?”

“Two s’mores ago,” he answers, squishing the marshmallow between two graham crackers and taking a huge bite. “Three now,” he says around a mouthful of food. 

Dean strings another marshmallow on his stick. He doesn’t even eat them. He just likes toasting them. Sam would say it’s just another sign of his pyromania. Hey, fire is man’s friend, what’s not to like? “Have you seen Sam?” he asks.

Dallas nods. “Yeah. Last I saw him, he was inside talking to one of the lifeguards. That Julie chick.” Dallas shoves the last of the gooey snack into his mouth, washes it down with a slug of beer. “Sam’s looking good tonight. Has he gotten bigger since you guys got here? I swear he’s taller. And his shoulders are....” He spreads his hands a bit, then spreads them more. “Freakin’ huge.”

Dean smacks him on the head with his marshmallow stick. “Stop perving on my little brother.”

“Why?” Dallas asks, shrugging. “He seeing someone?”

There’s no safe way to answer that so Dean doesn’t. “Let’s go find him.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Inside, it’s hot, stuffy, and the music is loud. Just like Dean likes it. It’s easy enough to find Sam, between his height and his shaggy hair. Sure enough he’s talking to the cute redhead Dean remembers from the lake. 

Dean walks up behind Sam, hooks his chin over his shoulder. “Hey, Julie,” he says. 

“Hey, Dean,” she says with a smile. She’s really a nice girl. On her way to U of Michigan in the fall, Dean remembers. “I’m sorry you didn’t get to dance at the end of year show.”

Dean shrugs without moving off of Sam. “S’okay. I’m not really that good. Dallas here was awesome enough for three people.”

“Thank you.” Dallas says with a small nod of his head.

“You were awesome,” Sam adds, slipping out from under Dean and turning towards Dallas. “I should have taken lessons from you at some point this summer.”

“I’ll dance with you anytime, gorgeous.” Dallas smirks. “But I think your dance card was full up, my friend.” He looks pointedly at Dean. “Not that I have any complaints. You guys look amazing together. It’s fun to watch.”

“Yeah?” Julie asks. “You guys dance together?”

Dean and Sam exchange glances. “Not really,” Sam answers over Dean’s yes. 

Dean gives him a look, one eyebrow raised in challenge. “Yes,” he repeats. “I’ve been giving him lessons. He’s not bad.”

“We foxtrot,” Sam adds. “It’s not that exciting.”

Julie looks back and forth between them. “This I have to see.”

Dallas nods enthusiastically. “You really do.” He calls out across the room to the kid working the turntables. “Hey, Angel, you got some dance music up there?”

Angel smiles, teeth almost as white as the shock of dyed hair under the green beanie. “It’s all dance music, my man.” 

Several staff members laugh and Dean sees Sharon separate from the group. She walks over to Angel and confers with the dj for a minute. Then they dig through a box of actual records until Sharon pulls one out triumphantly. She holds it up, and looks at Dean, a question in her eyes. Dean looks at Sam, who shrugs. _Why not?_

 _Okay then,_ Dean thinks, already walking out towards the center of the room. “Bring it on,” he says with a smile. 

The crowd pulls back, like in every cheesy high school movie ever, leaving an open space in the middle of the floor. Dean walks to the center of the circle, expecting Sam to be right behind him. But when he turns, he sees Sam stripping off his white overshirt. Dean is kind of caught in the way his skin glistens with a light sheen of sweat, the way the low lighting highlights the dips and swells of his arm and shoulder muscles. Dean’s licks his lips, mouth like a desert, as Sam stalks over to him, all loose-hipped and prowly. The finger snaps and light drumbeats of Peggy Lee’s ‘Fever’ purr from the speakers just as Sam stops in front of Dean and brings his arms up. Sam only has eyes for Dean and Dean can’t look away either as he steps right up into Sam’s space.

They start with the deceptively simple basic step, Sam leading. It just works better that way. Slow, slow, quick quick. Swing and sway. Rise and fall. Sam leads them through a few basic turns, a promenade or two, and the music starts slipping down Dean’s spine and settling low in his hips.

He feels their movements getting more liquid, more smooth, and Dean is aware of all the eyes on them. He knows they look good. And by the look in Sam’s eye, he knows it too. “Too bad there’s no mirrors here,” he whispers as they glide past Dallas.

“Probably for the best,” Sam answers. Dean knows he’s remembering that one time they had been alone in the mirrored dance studio. It was harder than you would think to get butt prints off of glass. 

Dean feels Sam starting one of the more advance patterns they’d just started working on. It comes so easily to them. Their bodies are used to working in sync, and the sex, that just makes it better. Sam pulls Dean in for a tumble-hover corte combo which gives him a brief moment to slide his thigh between Dean’s legs and pull them against each other before coming apart.

Dean totally gets why some religions ban dancing. It’s foreplay, plain and simple. A tease and a promise. You can feel the heat and movement of the other person’s body under your hands, can feel the rest of them so close, but never quite touching long enough or hard enough. Bodies brushing against each other then sliding away 

Peggy’s singing about how chicks were born to give you fever and the temperature in the room has gone up for sure. Dean can see other couples swaying on the sidelines, back to front, as they watch Sam and Dean. Sweat rolls down Sam’s back and Dean feels the heat from his body. What a lovely way to burn.

The music trails off and Sam spins them to a stop. Catcalls and whistles echo in the room. Dean drops a mock curtsy to Sam, who returns a stately, if sweaty, bow.

Dallas swoops in and grabs them both around the waist. “That was way too hot. You sure that was just the foxtrot?”

“Pretty sure,” Sam answers. “Not sure it was all strictly ballroom.”

“New steps?” Dallas asks in mock horror. “I expected better from you, Dean.”

Dean shakes his head sorrowfully. "Where the man goes, the lady must follow.”

Dallas laughs again, squeezes Dean around the waist again. “I’m pretty sure you’re not a lady,” he says. Dean and Sam share a look over his head. _Wanna?_ Dean mouths.

Sam’s eyes widen. His tongue flicks out to lick his bottom lip, draw it in between his teeth. _Oh yeah,_ Sammy wants to.

Dean pulls away just enough to turn and face Sam, not quite trapping Dallas between them, just kind of standing there. Standing with intent. “Definitely not a lady,” he says, looking Dallas up and down slowly. 

Dallas’ eyes are stuck on Dean’s mouth. His jaw drop drops the slightest bit as Sam presses in behind him. “I’m going to throw some cold water on my face,” Sam announces. “Dragging this guy around the room is hard work.” He squeezes Dallas’ hip, his fingertips trailing gently across the skin on his lower back as he leaves.

“Hey, I’m a fucking feather in your arms, bitch,” Dean yells at his retreating back. Sam retaliates with a one-finger salute as he disappears, laughing, down the hallway. Dean and Dallas watch him go. 

When Dean looks down at Dallas, he can see the heat in Dallas’ eyes. He may not be 100% sure what’s on offer, but he’s down for whatever, Dean can tell. “Drink?” Dean asks him. “Then wanna go freshen up?”

Dallas darts a look down the hall then back at Dean. “Absolutely.”

“Awesome,” Dean answers. He grab Dallas by the hand and drags him away. A quick smile gets him a half-full bottle of tequila and some limes from the guy playing bartender. He slides his hand up Dallas’ back, hoping they’re being obvious enough to buy some privacy.

The bathroom is a small two-stall, two-sink, window near the ceiling, affair. Not a lot of room, but it will do. This is just an appetizer, something to take the edge off until they can be alone later. Dean grabs a handful of Dallas’ shirt and pulls him into the room. Without letting go, he reaches back and locks the door.

“Hey,” Sam says. He actually has washed his face and his neck, if the wet patches on his t-shirt are anything to go by. It’s so Sam that Dean just has to kiss him. He keeps his hand clenched in Dallas’ shirt as he closes the distance between them. 

Sam leans back against the wall, an echo of the way he looked back at the cabin; eyes heavy-lidded, one foot flat against the wall. Dean swings Dallas around until his back hits the wall next to Sam. The air oofs out of him and Dean pulls his eyes away from Sam long enough to check on Dallas. “You okay?” Dallas nods, eyes wide. “You okay with _all_ of this?” Dean asks, free hand curving around Sam’s throat, thumb caressing his lips, so there is no mistaking what ‘all of this’ means. 

Dallas nods rapidly. “Yeah,” he croaks. “Oh, yeah. I mean, if you are.”

Dean smiles. “Oh, we are.” He surges up to meet Sam’s mouth. The kiss is instantly deep and dirty, like it’s been days instead of hours since they were together like this. Sam gets one hand around the back of Dean’s skull and hold him just where he wants him. Luckily it’s just where Dean wants to be. 

Sam’s mouth is hot, demanding. He’s fucking Dean’s mouth with his tongue and if Dean had had _any_ idea what Sam could do with his mouth, they would have been doing this a long time ago. Dallas’ chest is heaving under Dean’s hand and he can feel the hummingbird beating of his heart. He lifts his hand and slides it up under Dallas’ t-shirt, enjoying the soft skin and the sweet little hitch of breath he gives when Dean scratches across his nipple.

Dean gives a wicked roll of his hips against Sam, grinding their hard lengths against each other. Sam moans, both hands dropping to Dean’s ass. He’s practically lifting Dean off the ground with each pull and thrust, and Dean knows he could come like this with no problem. It wouldn’t be the first time. He loves it, the dirty frantic grinding, the lust rising like heat up into his throat until he feels it the pulse of his neck. Love Sammy’s hand huge and tight against him and the desperate gasps Sam makes when words start to fail him. But that wouldn’t be fair to Dallas. 

With one last hard nip to Sam’s bottom lip, he pushes away from his brother. Sam strips off his t-shirt in one sweet move. Then he turns to Dallas and grabs his shirt. “Off,” Sam orders. 

Dean moves out from between them, leaning back against one of the sinks, as Sam lifts Dallas’ shirt over his head. His skin is smooth and dark, nipples a darker brown against the gorgeous swell of muscle. Dallas is compact and muscular all over. Dean’s seen the way he can move, seen him lower himself down in a one-handed handstand with a control that would make a pole dancer weep with jealousy. 

Sam lets out a low whistle and smooths his palms reverently over every little dip and bump. “Holy crap, Dallas,” he says, dropping his head down to taste. “You should be shirtless all the time.” 

Dallas moans as Sam thumbs over both his nipples at the same time, teeth digging into the soft skin of his neck. Sam’s hands are all over his body, but he holds his arms up and away, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to touch or not.

“Go ahead, man.” Dean urges. “Touch him. It’s okay.”

“Fuck, yeah,” Sam agrees. “Touch me.” He slides his hands around behind Dallas, down into the back of his jeans. Dallas takes that permission and runs with it; arms curling up under Sam’s and clamping onto his shoulders. He pushes up on his toes and seals his mouth against Sam. Sam swallows a moan and Dallas takes advantage of it, using his strength to flip them, putting Sam’s back against the wall. 

“Nice,” Dean comments. Dallas’ back is too tempting to pass up, and Dean’s never been one to resist temptation. He jumps down off the sink and moves up behind them. He pulls off his shirt too. He’s got to feel all that skin against his

Sam’s got his head thrown back, one hand on Dallas’ head, the other clutching at the window ledge above his head. Dean slides his arms around Dallas and rubs his chest against his back. Oh, it feels good. 

“Umm, yeah,” Dallas moans, tipping his head back against Dean’s shoulder. Who is Dean to turn down an invitation like that? He mouths up the side of Dallas’ neck as he reaches between him and Sam to pop open the buttons of Sam’s jeans. 

Sam sucks in a breath, pulling his stomach in so Dean can slip his hands inside. “God, Dean, please.” 

Sam is hard and hot against his hand. And so wet. He’s always dripping by the time Dean gets his mouth on him. He runs his finger across the tip and Sam and Dallas both shudder. So he does it again, feeling Sam’s breath warm against his cheek. “Dean,” Sam whines. Dallas is staring down between them, watching Sam’s cock slip through Dean’s fist. Dean worries at the thin skin at the curve of his neck and Dallas moans, his hands digging into the cut of Sam’s hipbones.

Dean chuckles against Dallas’ skin. Oh, this is fun. They’re both so responsive. He can’t wait to see them together. One more glide of his fingers across Sam’s cock to gather the sticky fluid at the tip, then he brings his hand up and rubs his dirty fingers across Dallas’ lips. He moans and sucks them in like a pro.

“Ah, fuck,” Dean curses at the warm heat and the sucking pull. Dallas licks his fingers clean, then flicks a tongue at the webbing between his fingers. “Shit.” Dean surges up against him, thrusting his hips and rubbing against Dallas’ ass. He drags his finger out of Dallas’ mouth, pulling his lower lip down. Dallas nips at tips as he does. Dean has got to see that mouth wrapped around Sam’s cock like five seconds ago. 

With a growl that he’ll deny later, Dean reaches down and rips open the fly of Dallas’ pants. The back of his hand brushes against Sam’s dick as he pumps hard and fast on Dallas. 

Sam’s hands clutch at Dean’s shoulders, nails scraping through the sweat. Neither Dallas nor Sam moves to touch themselves or each other and it’s making Dean kind of crazy they way they’re just letting him call the shots. Dallas’ dick feels good in his hands, shorter than his but thicker and Dean’s ass clenches at the thought of feeling Dallas pushing into him. But that’s not going to happen. “Want to see him suck you, Sammy,” he forces out through gritted teeth. 

“God, yes, please. Please, Dean.” Sam begs.

Dallas throbs in his hand, pulsing out precome as fast as Sammy. Dean’s hand is slick from the two of them. He slides up and pushes Dallas into Sam, grabbing both their dicks with one hand as best as he can. It’s a handful. Sam is hung like a pornstar.

Dallas groans deep in chest, leans his head into Sam’s chest. “Please, Dean,” he moans, echoing Sam. “Can I? Let me suck him. I gotta get my mouth on him. Been thinking about it so long.”

Hearing them both begging for his permission is almost enough to make Dean come right then. He breathes deeply, panting, to pull himself back from the edge. “Yeah? Been thinking about my little brother’s cock in your mouth?”

Dean can tell by the way Dallas hesitates that he’s not sure how to answer. Dean’s hand sliding up and down his cock isn’t helping, he’s sure. But Dean’s a good guy, he’ll help him out. “I’ll tell you a secret. Sam’s been thinking about it, too. Haven’t you, Sam?” He looks up at Sam.

Sam’s eyes are nearly black with desire and his hips roll slowly in time with Dean’s stroke. “Yeah, I have. Almost as much as I think about my cock in your mouth, Dean.”

Dean and Dallas both shudder at that. _Christ, the fucker is going to make him come too fast._ Dean’s so proud of him. He has to take a second to open his jeans, the pressure against his cock is getting unbearable. Dallas’ skin feels so good against him. He lets go of their cocks to work Dallas’ jeans down over the curve of his ass. It’s a great ass. Rounded and muscular and Dean bends his knees to rut against it a few times. But that’s not what he wants either. He puts a hand on each of Dallas’ shoulders. “You heard what the man said,” he whispers, pushing down.

And Dallas drops to his knees with that strong grace he does everything. 

Dean steps back to lean back against the sink again.

Dallas turns to look over his shoulder at Dean, hands on Sam’s fly. “What about you?” he asks.

Sam chuckles, gently turning Dallas’ head back with a soft hand on his cheek. “Dean likes to watch,” he answers. “Don’t you?”

“You know I do,” Dean says, sliding his hand up and down his cock slowly.

Sam pulls Dallas’ head forward, a hand on either side of his head. Dean and Sam moan in unison as he leans forward, opens up, and sucks Sam down almost to the root.

The small bathroom fills up with the humid heat from their bodies, the wet sounds of Dallas’ mouth on Sam’s cock, and the soft grunts and moans from all of them. Dallas is loving it as much as Sam is. His hands grip the back of Sam’s thighs, and Dean knows he’ll find crescent-shaped indents of his fingernails there later when he has Sam spread out on his stomach on their bed.

Sam is close now, the red flush on his cheeks spreading down his throat and chest, and his mouth hanging open. He’s sinful, shirtless, his jeans hanging open, and Dallas, gorgeous and muscular in front of him. They’re past the point of finesse now. Dallas with one hand around the base of Sam’s cock and Sam’s hands on his head as he fucks into Dallas’ mouth. Sam’s moans are interspersed with cursing and Dean and Dallas’ names. Dean has to see him come, he can’t take much more of this.

He walks over to Sam and leans next to him against the wall. “Come for me, Sammy,” he growls, reaching up and twisting Sam’s nipple hard. “Fuck, fuck,” Sam yells and shoots hard and deep down Dallas’ throat.

Dean kisses him through it as Dallas swallows, pulling off when Sam stops jerking and thrusting.

“Good?” Dean asks, carding his fingers through Sam’s hair. Sam nods, eyes closed.

Dallas rises as gracefully as he’d gone down and Dean can’t tear his eyes away from the muscles in his stomach and chest. Sam leans his head against Dean’s shoulder and reaches out for Dallas. “I want to see you two together,” he says. Dean can work with that. He reaches out for the other man.

Dallas comes willingly.

Dean pulls him tight against him, pressing his mouth against Dallas’ and licks every taste of Sam out of his mouth. Their arms are wrapped around each other, legs tangled, riding each other’s thigh. 

“Jesus Christ,” Sam breaths out. “You guys are fucking hot together.”

Dean has to agree. He can see them in the mirror, dark skin on white, all twined together. Suddenly he wants Dallas to see. He pushes Dallas away and spins him around. “Look at us,” he demands.

Dallas is a few inches shorter than Dean, so Dean can see the mirror clearly as Dallas reaches back to hook an arm around Dean’s neck. He digs into his pocket and pulls out the packet of lube he’d stuffed their earlier. Sam reaches over and takes it out of his hand. Dean licks his palm and wraps his hand tight around Dallas’ hot length. He so hard and wet from blowing Sam. Dean sympathizes. Two days ago he came just from the feel of Sam’s cock in his mouth, without even his own hand on his dick.

Sam grabs his hand off Dallas and squirts some lube into it. With a wicked smile, he pours some into his own hand and slides it down between Dean and Dallas’ bodies to grasp Dean’s cock and slick it up./p>

“Fuck, Sammy,” Dean sigh, matching his strokes on Dallas’ cock.

Sam pulls away and turns to lean against the wall, watching them in the mirror. Dean’s dick is sliding up and down against Dallas’ back, his hand is twisting up and down and around Dallas’ dick and Sam’s eyes are boring into his. Dean slides down the wall, tugging Dallas’ jeans down his legs, until he can slide his cock between Dallas’ muscular thighs. “Oh, yeah,” he groans as Dallas tightens around him. “Shit.”

Sam licks his lips, hand dropping down to his cock as he watches.

Dean is nudging against Dallas’ balls with each thrust, sliding across the sensitive skin behind them. His hand tightens around Dallas, who gets impossibly harder. Dean thrusts hard and faster, hips snapping forward, slapping against Dallas’ ass. He can feel the orgasm building in the base of his spine and he sets his teeth on Dallas’ shoulder and bites down.

Dallas comes with a series of pained curses, shooting over Dean’s hand and into the air. His face is a work of art in the mirror and Dean yanks him flush against his body and comes all over his thighs.

Clean up is accompanied by shots of tequila and a brief fight with wads of cold, wet paper towels.

They rejoin the party and it’s a half an hour more of hellos and goodbyes and see you next years that Sam and Dean can’t reciprocate. Finally it’s just them, the bottle of tequila, and Sharon and Dallas on the porch, staring up at the stars.

Sharon reaches for the bottle and takes a swig. “Well, I guess this is goodbye, boys.”

Dean nods from where he sprawls against the porch railing, Sam leaning against him as usual. The air is crisp, the tequila warm in his veins, and Sam’s been whispering all kind of promises in his ear for later. It’s Dean’s idea of heaven. “Guess it is.”

“It was quite the summer, wasn’t it?” she asks.

Dean agrees, but knows it’s for completely different reasons. “Yes it was, ma’am.”

She reaches over and smacks him on the shoulder. “Don’t ma’am me, you whippersnapper.”

Dallas and Sam laugh. Sam rolls across Dean drunkenly until he’s resting against Dean’s chest. “Two for one ghosts,” Sam comments.

Sharon gestures with the bottle. “Yeah. Yes. That, that was super freaky.”

Dallas looks back and forth between them. “What? Ghosts? That was for real?” 

Sam, Dean and Sharon nod.

“Well, fuck me,” Dallas whispers. “What, who...was the lake haunted?”

Dean looks at Sam. He’s got the more believable face. “Yeah, it was. It isn’t now.”

Dallas reaches for the tequila bottle. Sharon hands it over. “They took care of it,” Sharon explains. “It was amazing.”

Dean hugs Sam against him. “It’s what we do,” he explains.

“Shit,” Dallas exclaims.

“Yeah,” Sharon agrees.

Sam twists in Dean’s arm. “I’m tired.”

“Okay, baby boy,” Dean says. He pushes them both up. “Time to go.” He looks at Dallas and Sharon. He hates goodbyes. He doesn’t usually have to say them. And rarely to people he actually cares about as much as he does these two. It’s just a little taste of what’s to come, and the knowledge freezes him in place.

Sam comes to the rescue. “Sharon, Dallas, thank you. For everything. We’re really going to miss you both.”

Sharon’s eyes are bright and she draws Sam in for a hug. “Me, too, baby. I’m going to miss you, too.” She pulls away, mischief in her eyes. “One for the road?”

Sam looks over at Dean, who shrugs and gestures for Sam to go ahead. Sharon reels him in and lays a good, long kiss on him. Dean nods approvingly. “You, too, hot stuff,” Sharon says, reaching for Dean. Dean is nothing if not obliging. Sharon is soft and warm around him and tastes like tequila. Nice, but Dean’s got Sam to take home for their last night before John gets back. One last short kiss and he pulls away. 

“Dallas,” he says, turning towards him. Dallas comes willingly and Dean kisses him thoroughly before passing him on to Sam.

“So that’s how it is,” Sharon remarks, eyebrows up by her hairline.

“It’s been an interesting summer,” Dean explains.

“It appears so,” she answers. “Take care, Winchesters,” she calls as they walk down the stairs to the path.

They wave back and walk to their cabin for the last time.


	7. Chapter 7

It’s not quite dawn when Sam wakes up. The light coming through the thin curtain is pearly gray, not yet tinged with pink. Dean is still sleeping, sprawled across the mattresses they’ve dragged onto the floor. They’d only crashed a few hours ago. When they’d gotten home, Dean had pushed him down and yanked his pants off. He’d moaned his way through a sloppy, dirty, insanely hot blow job that had ended with Sam on his hands and knees, Dean’s tongue up his ass, begging for Dean to let him come. 

Dean had just licked harder until he’d reared up and come all over Sam’s ass. The sounds of Dean’s orgasm and the feel his come dripping down his thighs pushed Sam over the edge, too. Then they’d both had barely enough energy to wipe up before passing out under the thin blankets. Tequila is not their friend.

Sam watches Dean sleep for a few minutes more but all he can hear is the ticking of the clock. Dad’s going to be here in a few hours. Orientation at Stanford is in a week. The time in between is going to be hell for everyone. Sam feels horribly, terribly selfish. He’d been telling himself that part of the reason he was leaving because he couldn’t live any longer trying to repress these feelings for Dean. But now he doesn’t have to and he’s still leaving. Sure, they’d have to hide from Dad, but he’s not around much anyway lately, they could make it work.

Dad will send them out on hunts by themselves while he continues his quest for the demon that killed his wife. And he and Dean will keep doing whatever this is until the day when one or both of them dies. 

Sam can see it. Has pictured it so many different ways. Dean bleeding out alone in an alley while Sam waits at the motel watching bad TV. Dad ripped apart by some monster while Sam and Dean are drinking beer at some dive bar. Or worse. It does’t have to be something supernatural. All it would take is Dean pissing off the wrong redneck somewhere and ending up on the wrong side of a gun. 

It’s never his death he sees. Never his dying he cares about. That he will die hunting is a given. He’s slower than Dean or Dad, a worse hunter. He thinks too much about it, sees the grey where they see only black and white. It makes him second guess his actions, slows him down, and he hates it. So he has to go. He hates this life with every ounce of his being. He’s angry all the time and he never feels safe anywhere.

Except with Dean wrapped around him. Like he should be right now. Sam pulls off the tank top and kicks offs his briefs.There’s no need to be coy or seductive now. He checks that the lube is within reach before sliding up alongside Dean.

He slides his hand down the front of Dean’s briefs, gently rubbing his hand up and down his half-hard cock. He pushes up on his elbow to get closer to Dean, nosing behind his ear, kissing the side of of his neck. “Deeann,” he singsongs. His hand tightens a little, tugging, as parts of Dean start to wake up.

“Umm, Sammy,” Dean moans. “Five more minutes.”

“Uh huh,” Sam answers, smiling into Dean’s skin as he rolls him over onto his back. “Five more minutes,” he says, crawling over Dean’s prone body.

Dean’s hands float up to Sam’s hips as he rolls his head back, stretching out his neck to give Sam easier access. “Sam,” he groans as his hands slide up and down Sam’s naked flanks. “Fuck, Sam.”

“That’s the general idea,” Sam laughs. He lifts up onto his knees and starts to roll Dean’s briefs down. Dean lifts his hips up to help, shoving them down himself when Sam can’t reach anymore.

Dean is rapidly getting harder. Sam rocks gently into it and leans down to capture Dean’s gorgeous mouth. “Yeah,” Dean says, wrapping his hands around Sam’s back and pulling him down.

They trade kisses, nipping and biting, tongues sliding back and forth. Dean’s hands glide up and down Sam’s back. It’s slow and warm and Sam lets himself sink into it. He’s going to take all the love he can get (because that’s what this is) and he’s going to keep it safe, keep this memory locked in to help him through the dark nights to come.

Sam sits up and pulls Dean’s t-shirt up and over his head and now there is nothing between them. Skin to skin, heart to heart. The heat builds up slowly but steadily between them; breath coming faster, exhales slipping into moans and groans. Sam reaches over, grabs the lube and squeezes some into his hand.

Dean sighs as Sam slicks them both up, hands gripping into the flesh of Sam’s ass. Sam rolls his hips over and over, undulating against Dean, rubbing their hard lengths together. 

“Christ, Sammy. The way you move,” Dean groans. He drags his fingernails down Sam’s back. Eight lines of perfect pain.

“Dean.” Sam kisses him again, tongue and teeth and lips and he needs to memorize this. “Dean,” he repeats. “I need to feel you, I need you inside me.”

Dean grunts and his hands tighten on Sam’s hips. “Oh, god.” He thrusts up sharply against Sam. “Are you sure? Really sure?”

They’ve done everything but that. He doesn’t know why, it shouldn’t be any different than Dean’s fingers or, sweet Jesus, his tongue. But it is. Maybe it just seems too real, too intense. Like if they cross this line, it would take this thing between them from something they could still pretend was no big deal, was just fooling around, and change it into something real. But now Sam needs to make it real. He needs Dean to know how he feels about him, how much he loves him, even though it will make it that much harder for Dean when he leaves. But Sam is selfish, he knows that.

“Yeah, Dean. I’m sure.” He crawls up Dean’s body, dragging his ass across Dean’s cock and pulling a groan from deep inside of him. “C’mon, fuck me.”

Dean grabs him, pulls him down and flips them over. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.” He kisses all the oxygen out of Sam’s lungs, kisses him and rubs against him until Sam is dizzy with it, and begging, begging for Dean to fuck him.

Dean is just as breathless as he sits up between Sam’s legs. “God, Sam. Fuck. So good, so gorgeous.” He fumbles the lube, fumbles the cap, and squeezes way too much out onto his hands. He slicks his hand up between Sam’s ass cheeks, fingers dragging across his opening. 

Sam whines deep in his throat and shifts his legs wider. “C’mon, Dean. Do it.”

Dean wraps his other hand almost too tightly around Sam’s cock and slides one lubed finger into him.

Sam curses and pushes up into Dean’s fist, then slams back down onto his finger, pushing it deeper. “Oh God, oh God,” he pants. Dean’s brows are drawn down low as he watches Sam’s reaction to his every move. By the time they’ve worked up to three fingers, Sam has his hands wrapped around his own thighs, holding himself open. Dean’s cock is an iron bar where he can’t seem to stop rubbing it against Sam’s hip. 

“Jesus Christ, Dean. For the love of God, fuck me already.” He lets go of one of his thighs to grab at Dean’s hip, trying to pull him closer.

“Okay, okay, okay.” Dean’s hand is trembling as he holds himself and pushes into Sam for the first time.

It’s thick and hard, and Sam’s mouth drops open as it pushes all the space out of his body. He rolls and rocks his hips, pushing down. “Oh, fuck, yes, yes, yes,” he hears himself saying. It seems like it goes on forever until Dean is pushed tight up against him.

Dean’s braced over him, hand on either side of his body and Sam’s almost bent in half, legs wrapped around Dean’s waist. And Sam was right to be afraid of this. Afraid of the intimacy. He wonders how women do it. How they let someone in over and over. He could never be that brave. Can’t imagine anyone ever besides Dean being there. Can’t imagine ever wanting to let Dean leave. 

Dean’s arms are trembling and his eyes are wide open. He looks stricken. He looks like he can’t believe this is actually happening. “Sammy,” he says, voice strangled. “So perfect. You’re so perfect.”

_I’m not. I’m so not,_ is what he wants to say. What he says is “Move, please. Please.”

So Dean moves. He pulls out, then slides back in so slowly and so perfect, Sam’s eyes roll back in his head. Dean fucks him as deeply and as perfectly as Sam knew he would. Time doesn’t mean everything anymore. It’s just him and Dean and the way they feel.

Whenever Sam had pictured this, and he’d pictured it many, many times, he’d imagined all kind of filth falling from Dean’s gorgeous mouth. Imagined he would be moaning and groaning. But they’re both so quiet. There’s just their breathing and the slap of skin on skin.

All Sam’s attention is focused on Dean. On the way it feels to have Dean all around him, inside and out. He wants it to last forever but he can feel them both getting closer. Dean’s thrusts are growing harder and more erratic. He pulls up onto his knees, pushing Sam’s thighs back and lifting his hips up off the bed. He’s punching into Sam’s prostate over and over, and now Sam is moaning. He can’t help it. It’s so fucking good. His cock is aching but he can’t do anything but clench the sheets and curse.

“Sam. Fuck, Sam.” Dean’s grip slips up to Sam’s calves as he drives into him again and again. “Gonna come. God.” He thrusts one more time and stills. Sam can feel Dean pulsing inside of him, over and over, and he wants to cry with how good it feels. While he’s still grunting out his orgasm, Dean drops one of Sam’s legs and wraps his hand around Sam’s cock. He pumps hard. “Come on, Sam. Come with me. I want to see it. Come on, come on,” he begs and Sam is just gone. 

“Dean. Dean,” he keens. “Jesus.” He cock jerks and shoots all over his chest and up to his chin. They shudder and twitch together until Dean’s arms give out and he drops down onto his elbows, chest heaving against Sam’s, foreheads pressed together.

They stay pressed together until their breathing slows down. Dean rolls off Sam, sliding out of him with a groan. They lay there until the sun rises, pink light filtering through the curtain.

“We should get up,” Sam says.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. Neither one of them moves. 

“Dean,” Sam starts.

“Don’t,” Dean interrupts him.

“But...” There’s so much Sam thinks he needs to say.

“Sam. Don’t.” Dean has one arm thrown over his face. The light moves across the floor as the sun rises higher. They breath in sync for a few minutes until Dean sighs deeply. 

Sam tries again. “I love you.”

Dean rolls his head to look at Sam. He pushes up and leans over, kissing Sam deeply. The kiss is full of love and caring and everything Sam knows Dean feels for him. He tries to give it back, to let Dean know everything he’s feeling and thinking.

Dean pulls off, searching Sam’s face for something. He seems to find it and gives Sam a small smile. “I love you, too,” he says as he stands up. It sounds like goodbye.

When Dean tells him he’s going to take a shower and that Sam should start packing up because Dad is going to be there soon, Sam realizes that it was.

It makes a little easier a week later when John tells him not to bothering coming back if he walks out that door. Dean doesn’t say anything when he drives Sam to the bus station, just shoves a wad of bills at him. It’s most of his pay from the summer. Sam doesn’t say anything either. Doesn’t ask Dean to come with him, though every part of him wants to. He won’t ask Dean to make that choice. So they sit in silence while they wait for the bus. They’ve already said everything they need to.


End file.
